Bird Flu
by Serialgal
Summary: A serial killer begins to send Don mysterious clues, threatening to target someone close to him – but not who he thinks. The resulting events drive both brothers to their mental and physical limits.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**Bird Flu **

_A Numb3rs fic. A serial killer/rapist begins to send Don cryptic avian clues, threatening to target someone close to him – but not who he thinks. The resulting events drive both brothers to their mental and physical limits._

_A/N: This plot bunny has been hopping around in my head for over two years now, ever since Robin was first on the show. It's high time I wrote it. I moved it forward in time however; episode- and character-wise, it would take place just before the finale of Season Four, although it's set in the summertime._

_This is a rather dark fic, with lots of whumping and lots of angst. I'm winging this one (pun intended.) It's a departure for me in that I'm writing without a beta, and it's unfinished at this point, although I'm about twenty chapters in. I have an ending in mind, but I'm still at a point where your comments can influence that. Although I am writing without a beta at least at this point, I do want dedicate the story to my usual betas – Alice I, who has selflessly beta'd many of my stories, and FraidyCat, who has given me the courage to write something with an edge. Also – all of you who read and review on a regular basis – I know who you are, and I appreciate it very much._

_Because of the villain I chose, (serial killer/rapist), there is some ugly subject matter, but there is nothing more graphic in here than what one might find on a show such as Criminal Minds, which is driving the T rating. Still, some of the subjects may be unsettling - be forewarned. Update: this fic has been on the site with a T rating for quite some time, and after nearly 900 reviews, I did receive a comment that perhaps the rating should be bumped up. I still stand by my choice; I think it is consistent with others with a T rating, because much of the dark stuff is implicitly rather than explicitly written - however, please consider this comment before you read this story. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters. I do claim rights to the story line and any OC's. Any resemblance of any of the characters to real people is purely coincidental. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story._

**Bird Flu - Chapter 1**

The first thing that occurred to Don was that it was an elaborate, messy practical joke.

It was early Monday evening, and he stood in the doorway of his apartment, waving away the feather drifting past his face, and gazed at the dozens of winged intruders in his apartment. Some of them had started in fright when he opened the door, flapping around in a frenzy, but when he stopped, rooted in place by shock, they began settling back to roost wherever they could; on his sofa, his television, his coffee table. A couple of pigeons, unperturbed by his presence, waddled through the door past his feet, heads bobbing amiably.

He quietly backed out, shut the door, took out his cell phone, and started dialing.

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Three hours later, Alan and Charlie followed Don into the living room of the apartment, and stood stunned. Charlie set his bucket down, and started pulling on rubber gloves, still staring at the scene around him, wide-eyed. "Wow." Feathers and bird droppings were everywhere. The room stank of guano.

Don grunted. "You should have seen it when the birds were in here." He glanced at the clock. "It's after eight already. We'd better get started."

Alan opened a plastic garbage bag and pulled on his own gloves, his face wrinkled in distaste as he moved to a window and picked up a bird carcass, dropping it in the bag. Several of the creatures had met their demise when they'd flown against the window, trying to get out. He scowled at the mess. "What did LAPD have to say?"

Don began tossing throw pillows in another garbage bag. Thankfully, his sofa was leather – it stood a chance of being cleaned, but the pillows were history. Don sighed. "Not a whole lot. Without anything else to go on, they're treating it as a practical joke."

"This is a lot more than a practical joke," exclaimed Alan, outraged. "You're looking at property damage here – you'll have to replace several items. If you ask me, this was malicious."

Don glanced at Charlie, taking in his worried expression, and tried to diffuse his father's statement. "Granted, Dad, whoever did this probably isn't crazy about me. It doesn't mean it's necessarily going to escalate. They probably got their kicks, and they're done."

Charlie began wiping oily smears and droppings from the television set, his expression still troubled, then suddenly stopped and straightened. "Your door – it didn't look like it was damaged. How did they get in?"

"You can see the marks if you look closely," replied Don, as he picked up a slimy pillow with a grimace. "The lock was picked."

Alan frowned at him. "I thought you told me you had a secure lock on your door."

Don looked slightly embarrassed. "I do – the deadbolt is. I didn't lock it today – I just locked the regular door lock."

Charlie sent him an accusing look. "And you're always lecturing me about locking _my_ doors."

"Hey, I locked something, at least," Don retorted. "You don't lock anything at all."

"I forget," Charlie muttered. He worked in silence for a moment. "They don't have any ideas who did this? Any witnesses?"

"No, not really. Someone on the next floor down said they saw a delivery man going up the stairs with a large box, but they didn't get a look at him – the box was in front of his face. Even if that was the guy, we don't really have anything. I wouldn't worry about it – if someone meant me any real harm, they would have been inside waiting for me, not dropping off a bunch of birds."

Charlie's look of alarm deepened, along with Alan's, and Don bit his tongue. "It's a joke," Don insisted with finality. "Just somebody's sick idea of a joke."

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He watched as they came out of the apartment building, late that night. The father, the younger brother, followed by Agent Eppes himself. He knew who the agent's family was; his father Alan, his brother Charlie, and where they lived and worked. He knew his team members, and his girlfriend, Robin Brooks. He knew several people who worked in the FBI building, and he knew other contacts that Eppes had in other parts of the law enforcement and judicial system. He even knew where he stopped for coffee, two days a week, when he wanted to treat himself or his girlfriend. He'd been studying him for three weeks, and it was time. His delivery of the birds was announcement of that. He would play with Eppes, torment him, and take something precious from him – and although he would give Eppes every opportunity to stop it, he would fail. Just like the last one.

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews folks! Here's two..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 2**

Don sighed as he made his way to his desk the next morning. They'd gotten done what they could the night before, but his apartment was still a mess. They were going to need at least a couple more sessions like that before it was habitable. Last night, he'd been a bit relieved to find that there wasn't anything missing, and no other signs of vandalism. This morning, though, it was starting to hit him – the inconvenience of it all, the damage, and it was starting to piss him off. Really. Starting. To. Piss. Him. Off.

He almost threw himself into his chair, and logged onto his computer with a rapid-fire, impatient series of taps, only partially aware of Colby and David, who had parked themselves on the desk next to his. It was unoccupied – Megan had asked Wright for some time off, going over Don's head without consulting him. It wasn't out of the question, especially if she had some kind of personal problem, but it was unusual, and worrisome. It made him wonder what had prompted it, and added to his already unsettled mood.

"Get everything cleaned up?" asked Colby, innocent of the fact that he was pushing buttons.

Don scowled at his computer screen. "Hell, no. There's crap everywhere – in every nook and cranny. It's going take a couple more nights to make it livable again. I spent the night at Charlie's."

David's expression was somber. "Maybe that's a good thing." He caught Don's annoyed glance, and hastened to add, "Until LAPD turns something up."

"All it is; is an inconvenience," Don muttered. "It's just something that someone thought was funny, but is just expensive and time-consuming. Thank God, my closet door was shut. At least I have clothes. I hope they do turn something up – I'd like to get my hands on the jerk."

"Any ideas of who it might be?" asked Colby. His expression was bland, but there was a hint of worry in his blue eyes.

Don shook his head. "No. Not unless you count that idiot Ferman in narc."

Colby grunted an acknowledgment. Don and Ricky Ferman, a narcotics undercover agent, had never been on good terms, and Ferman had nixed a recent investigation by Don's team, claiming it would derail something bigger he had going. The result had been an exchange of angry words, and Don had gone over Ferman's head. When it was over, they'd been granted permission to proceed, and had brought in a sizable drug ring – the same one that Ferman had been working. Needless to say, the narcotics agent had been incensed.

Don scanned his calendar, and sat back with a grimace – who knew scrubbing was so hard on one's back? He picked up his mail, which Marcy had been kind enough to bring to his desk. There wasn't a lot of hard mail anymore, he reflected idly. Everything was email. "What did you guys get when you talked to Wilkes yesterday?" He flipped through the envelopes, stopping at a Courier Express envelope addressed to him.

"Nothing," said David. "He's got an alibi for both bank take-downs." He watched as Don flipped the envelope over, examining it, and then opened it.

Don's brow puckered a bit as he drew out the plain white sheet of paper, which was folded in half, and opened it. The frown deepened as he read his name, followed by two simple typed lines.

_Agent Eppes:_

_The cardinal chirps cheerfully, blazing red. _

_Someone you know, who serves another._

Don shook his head in puzzlement, and turned the paper over, looking for more, but there was nothing. "What in the hell…?"

Colby reached for the paper, and held it by the corners, but so that both he and David could read it. David, too, shook his head, bewildered, and Colby scratched his. "A cardinal - d'you think it could be related to what happened yesterday?"

Don stared at the paper in Colby's hand. "I have no idea. Better run it and the envelope through for fingerprints."

They nodded and stood, David returning to his desk, Colby picking up the envelope and heading for the lab. Don rubbed his face and began to open the rest of his mail. "Just what I need," he muttered to himself. "A crackpot…"

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Larry Fleinhardt eased his head around through the door of Charlie's office, checking for students, before he pushed his way in. He could never keep track of when Charlie's office hours were; he could barely remember to be present for his own. The situation got even more problematic during the summer session. It was now late morning and the office was empty of students, which was a good thing, because it didn't look as though Professor Eppes was exactly focused. He was staring off into space, his elbow on the desk, and his chin resting on his hand.

"Contemplating the mysteries of unknown dimensions, my friend?" asked Larry with a smile, and Charlie stirred and sighed, turning his eyes on him.

"More like the mysteries of Delhi."

Larry eyed him sympathetically. Amita had taken advantage of the summer break to visit her parents in Delhi; their short visit in L.A. had made her miss them, she had said. "Have you spoken with her recently?"

"Yes – it's hard, though, with the time difference. She usually calls me at night – her morning - and I was at Don's last night." Why was he trying to cover, he asked himself? The fact was, she hadn't called – he'd made sure he had his cell on. His mouth twisted, ruefully. "I just can't help but think they're lining up suitors for her, over there."

Larry pursed his lips. "Oh, now, I think that's highly unlikely. It seemed her parents were quite enamored of you."

Charlie sighed. "It did seem that way. Who knows, though? Maybe they were just being polite. Or they could become enamored of someone else while she's there - someone Indian. I'll just feel better when she's back here."

"You were at Don's late then? A particularly intractable case, I presume?"

Charlie shook his head with a grimace. "A particularly intractable mess. Someone broke into his apartment yesterday and let loose four dozen birds. I would never have believed they could cause such damage."

Larry made a face. "Birds are such filthy creatures. They were allowed the run of the monastery, and created constant opportunities for cleansing – and not one's soul, if you take my meaning. I surmise this was a joke of some kind? A particularly fowl one, mind you."

Charlie winced. "I wouldn't try that humor around Don. He thought it was a joke too, but he wasn't very happy about it. Frankly, neither am I. Dad and I are lined up to help him clean for the next two nights."

"I'd be happy to offer my assistance," said Larry benevolently. "I do have some experience in such matters, after all."

Charlie grinned at him. "You don't know what you're getting into – but trust me, we'll take all the help we can get. I'm assuming you stopped by to see if I wanted to go to lunch?"

Larry's brow knit in puzzlement. "Did I?" His expression cleared. "Well, even if I didn't, my gastronomic urgings seem to indicate it a capital endeavor." He swept his arm in a grand gesture. Shall we?"

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Cookie Myers was fun. Everyone said so, including herself. Oh, she was bright enough – as Judge Wilson's assistant, she handled her job with ease. That she did so with flamboyance, spirit, and unending cheerfulness made her just that much more attractive – as a person, and an employee. Most people who had dealings with the judge had to come past her first, and even though those dealings were not always pleasant, she was. She managed to put the most worried people at ease, and to mollify the most irate. Judge Wilson loved her. Everyone loved Cookie.

She turned in front of the mirror of the boutique, admiring the jacket she'd tried on for size. A snug fit, with a little flare at the hips – but she had the figure for it. At forty, she was a trim size two, with a flaming head of red, perfectly coiffed hair. Although she loved expensive clothes, and wore them well, nothing about her was subtle. The jacket was a case in point. Purple, with teal green trim. An odd combination, but the designer made it work. Cookie, with her figure and her red hair, made it work, too. She looked at the price tag and sighed. This one would set her back the entire discretionary portion of a month's salary – but it was worth it, she decided, with pert nod at herself. Definitely.

She glanced at her watch at the checkout, as the clerk 'oohed' and 'aahed' over her purchase. Just time to get back to the office parking lot, and to grab a quick herbal tea from the place on the corner. Cookie didn't eat lunch – oh, no. One didn't stay a size two by eating lunch.

She clicked around the corner of the boutique in her Italian heels to the small parking lot behind the building; humming to herself, and smiling coquettishly at the very handsome young man who was approaching the back lot from around the side of a men's clothing store. Not too young, she decided with increased interest. Mid-thirties perhaps – tall, fit, with gorgeous blue eyes, dark blonde hair, and chiseled features that belonged to a model. A little young for many forty-year-olds, but not for someone as sleek and well kept as Cookie. She sent him a dazzling smile, taking in his well-cut suit. He had money too, apparently. Wow. Wow.

She was so busy with her double wow, she didn't notice the flat tire on her car until she was right up on it, and exclaimed in dismay. Ooh, damn, she was going to be late. She was never late – damn it!

"Can I help you?"

She turned, wide-eyed, and almost gasped with pleasure. The Adonis was standing right next her, his mesmerizing blue eyes dripping with concern and sympathy and – dare she say it? – admiration, interest. Definitely.

"Oh, I'm afraid I've got a flat," she sighed. "I need to get back to the office - I'm going to be late."

"Do you have a spare? I can change it for you." His voice was as attractive as his eyes – low and masculine.

She smiled and fluttered her lashes. "Why actually, yes." She held out a manicured hand and hit the remote on her key chain, popping the trunk. It never occurred to her to be concerned – only the wealthy frequented these shops, and although it was a small, secluded lot tucked in behind the stores, it was packed with Mercedes, BMWs, and Cadillacs. Plus, it was broad daylight. She held out her hand. "Cookie Myers."

"Bill Peters." He pulled off his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves, baring muscular forearms, and Cookie had to wrench her eyes away from the delectable sight. She minced over to the trunk, pretending to look inside, lifting up the carpet a bit. "I think it's under here -,"

Her words were cut off suddenly by a hand over her mouth, and pressure from behind – his body, forcing her against the open trunk. She cried out under his hand and squirmed, her head hitting the underside of the open trunk lid, just as she felt a pinch in her neck. It made her panic in earnest, and her mind told her to move, to fight, but her body was losing its ability to do that, her limbs were getting heavier. Now she was toppling into the trunk, like a rag doll. She tried clumsily to clamber out, but her arms and legs weren't moving as they should, and there was a suddenly thump, and then darkness, as the trunk lid closed. It had taken less than one minute.

Ryan Morgan straightened, looked quickly around, and pulled the compressed air canister from underneath the car. He re-inflated the tire in seconds, working quickly. There was a security camera trained on the lot, but he'd disabled that, moments before. He picked up her keys from the hot asphalt, put the canister in the back of the vehicle, climbed in the driver's seat, and adjusted it – quite a bit – she was only average height, and he was over six feet. He could feel the excitement starting to build – he imagined the way he would toy with her, what he would do with her, before he began his artwork. It was beginning – for her, for him, and for Eppes.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: You have no idea how bad he is..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 3**

Joanie Shire shuddered involuntarily as she caught sight of movement at the top of the steps. He was back, and he carried a body over his shoulder – a petite woman in a suit.

God help her, what kind of hell was this?

She was in a warehouse – a very old one with two stories, apparently abandoned, with carcasses of broken down crates scattered about on the wooden floor. Although it was no longer in use, there was life outside; it was extremely noisy – there was a constant roar during much of the day generated by bulldozers and jackhammers. She could also hear planes overhead, constantly – they had to be near an airport. The large, high industrial purpose windows were far across the room and contained frosted glass – frankly they would have been too dirty to see out of without the etching, but a few had been cracked open for a week or so, while he'd been collecting the birds. He'd let them fly in, and then shoo them over to the windows on the other side, where he'd trap them with a long-handled net.

While the windows were open, he'd taped Joanie's mouth shut, but she could see the tops of other warehouses through the slits, and an open space, where metal girders were being erected. Apparently, one or more of the old warehouses were being torn down and replaced. It was so noisy, he didn't bother to tape her mouth shut when the windows were closed – even when he left. She'd tried screaming while he was gone, yelling, shouting, crying, without result. Judging from the brief view out the window, the construction site was a block away. Even without the noise outside, they probably wouldn't have heard her. Still, she screamed until she couldn't anymore, until her voice was gone.

Other than the perception that she was in a warehouse, she had no idea where she was. Judging by the fact that he'd needed to sedate her at least once in the van – and who knew how many times in addition that she couldn't remember – the trip had been a long one. It was probable that she wasn't even in Seattle anymore. She knew Mike had to be looking for her – her husband was SAC of the Seattle FBI office – but she feared he didn't know they'd left the city.

Her husband had been working a case that had nearly been killing him the weeks before her abduction. He refused to talk about it at home, but she knew what it was – she'd seen the stories on the news. There was a serial killer in Seattle, who kidnapped women and killed them. The news was uncharacteristically stingy with details, so she knew it was bad, even if she didn't account for Mike's reaction. The rumors were that he raped, tortured and mutilated the women, then, when they were dead, left them to be found.

She'd suspected that the man who'd taken her was him, the serial killer, from the first, and she was even more certain when he'd made the videotape to send to her husband. As the weeks passed however, she began to doubt. He had raped her, repeatedly, and beaten her, but she was still alive. Most of the Seattle victims had been found only a day or two after their disappearance, but here she was, still living after three weeks. As time wore on, she began to wonder if it was the same man. Apart from the rapes, which were awful enough, for the last three weeks he'd done nothing else, except for capturing the birds, and coming and going, leaving for long periods of time. She had been restrained; chained to a support beam, and he left her with water, periodically releasing her and walking her to the dinghy restroom on the other side of the second story to relieve herself, and on occasion, taking her down to the first floor for a shower - he seemed to be obsessive about cleanliness. Food was another matter – he had starved her – giving her only what she needed to stay alive. Her clothes hung on her normally curvy frame. Still, except for the sexual assaults and the beatings, there was none of what she had expected - no torture, no mutilation. Was he the same man, or not?

She watched, sickened, as he removed the other woman's jacket and shoes, propped her in a chair, strapping her to it, and positioned the video equipment, hanging up sheets as a backdrop. She was pretty, a redhead, perhaps a few years older than Joanie, and was still clearly unconscious. Joanie could feel terror start to claw at her insides – after three weeks, something was finally happening, and she had the horrible premonition that it wasn't good.

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The video tape arrived the next morning.

Don had come into the office tired, but satisfied – he'd spent the night back at his own place. A crew had arrived to help clean the night before – in addition to Charlie and Alan, Larry had come, and some of his team had turned out – Colby and David, and even Liz and Robin had showed up. He had to admit it was just a bit unnerving to have Liz and Robin in the same room, but to their credit, they not only took the situation in stride, they ran with it, and were chatting like old friends by the end of the evening. Not that he was entirely comfortable with that turn of events, either. He could only hope that Liz was being kind – he really wanted his relationship with Robin to work this time.

He'd grabbed a coffee and sat, only to be confronted by the slim package, sent express via overnight mail – Courier Express, again. As he picked it up, Colby and Liz sauntered up with coffees of their own. Don glanced up at them as he pulled open the sealing tab on the reinforced envelope. "Hey – thanks for the help last night. I would have been homeless for another night yet, if you guys hadn't shown up." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, not missing the fact that the two of them seemed to be standing well within each other's personal space.

Liz directed a wicked smirk toward Colby. "Yeah, I think Granger would make someone a pretty good little wife."

Colby reddened a little, but he shot a grin right back at her. "Military training. If you come out with nothing else, you know how to clean your barracks." He looked at Don. "But I don't think staying at your brother's qualifies as homeless, especially not the way your dad cooks." He watched Don's smile fade, as he pulled out an unmarked disk. "What's that?"

Don shook his head, as David walked up. "Mornin'," he greeted them, and spied the disk in Don's hand. "What's that?"

Don rose from his desk. "Let's quit wondering and find out."

They filed into the conference room, and inserted the disk in the computer, Don being careful to handle it by the edges. Bland expressions turned immediately focused, disturbed, as an image of a woman bound to a chair filled the monitor screen. A man entered the picture, wearing all black – black pants, black gloves, a skin-tight black long sleeved shirt, a black ski mask, with the eyeholes covered with a material that apparently allowed a view out, but not in. The woman looked terrified, and for that fact they didn't recognize her immediately, until Liz exclaimed, "That's Cookie! Cookie Myers, from Judge Wilson's office!"

The proclamation left them stunned, but the depth of their surprise was nothing compared to their shock when the man started to talk, addressing the camera. "Shame on you, Agent Eppes. What did you do with the note I sent you yesterday, nothing?" He strode toward the camera, pointing at it. "Absolutely nothing, didn't you? And now it's too late, I have her." His voice dropped, softened, and assumed a taunting note. "You'll see what your inaction caused her, Eppes. And while you watch, remember, this is your fault. You'd better step it up for the next one."

The picture abruptly ended, and the screen turned gray. "It's still playing," said David softly, putting a hand on Colby's arm, who had moved to eject the disk.

"What note?" asked Liz. "What's he talking about?"

Don was silent, his face ashen, so Colby answered for him. "He got this weird note yesterday – we thought it might be connected to the birds at his apartment. It said something like – '_The cardinal chirps cheerfully, blazing red. Someone you know, who serves another.'"_

They stared at the gray screen for a minute. "Cookie's hair is red," said Don slowly. "Someone I know, who serves another… I know her, but she works for Judge Wilson." He ran a hand over his face. "I just saw her, a little over two weeks ago. I stopped by Judge Wilson's office to get the warrants for the drug ring bust."

Colby flipped open his cell phone and stepped to the corner of the room. "I'm gonna call LAPD, see if anyone reported her missing, and when." They waited through his short conversation; then he snapped the phone shut. "Judge Wilson called it in yesterday afternoon. She never came back to the office from lunch. They found her car abandoned on 13th Street last evening."

David was frowning. "What's up with this disk - ," he broke off suddenly as a picture flickered on the screen.

They had all seen plenty during their careers, but the next moments were to stay with each of them, ever afterward. Cookie's abductor had stripped her of her clothes and tied her hands above her head, hoisting her, dangling, over the floor. Her subsequent torture and beating, horrible enough, were followed by a brutal rape, after her kidnapper lowered her to the floor, and adjusted a pulley system, so that she was tied hand and foot, stretched out prone. Every scream of pain, every sob, made Don flinch slightly – there was no doubt, thought Liz, that he was taking this personally. They all were – the assault was all the more horrible because it was directed at someone they knew.

The tape seemed endless, but they watched it grimly, trying push down the emotion, to focus their minds, to look for clues. It was her end that undid them all, reducing them to shocked staring zombies, incapable of reasoning.

"What in the hell is he doing?" David rasped, his voice a harsh half-whisper.

He had moved her, strapped her splayed on a door-sized piece of wood, and they stared for a moment, watching the skilled hands manipulate a scalpel. They had long since turned down the sound, but it was apparent that Cookie was still very much alive, as the blade sliced into the skin of her chest and abdomen.

"Oh my God," whispered Liz. She turned and left the room, and Colby followed her, concern on his face. David looked at Don's stricken expression and hit stop, and the screen turned black. The screen saver came back on, the Bureau logo on the monitor seeming pitifully inadequate, a mockery.

"That's enough for now," he said, his voice gruff. "We'll finish later. You need to call the A.D., Don."

Don turned and gazed at him blankly, his eyes only focusing after they'd found David's.

He moved suddenly, awkwardly rising with fumbling movements. "Right." He stumbled out the door toward his desk, and David closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the bile in his throat.

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The video ended for the second time, and A.D. Wright cleared his throat. It was the only sound – Don Eppes and his team sat completely silent, faces impassive, but horror in their eyes. "I was afraid of this," said Wright, "when you described it to me."

Don's voice was harsh, with just a hint of impatience. "Afraid of what?"

"There are slight differences, but this looks like a case we had in Seattle – the press called him the Flower Killer. He targeted the SAC of the Seattle office, Mike Shire, sending him notes similar to yours, but he compared the victims to flowers, instead of birds. Mike came in to his office one morning to find it full of flowers – thought it was a practical joke, like you. The notes started soon afterward. I called him just before I got here, after you and I talked. He's going to catch a flight down to L.A. The M.O. is exactly the same – torture, rape. He flays his victims alive; cauterizing the major sources of bleeding, and leaves them to die from shock and slow blood loss. Then he puts them somewhere they'll be found."

"How many?" asked Don, his voice tight.

"We had four vics in Seattle, all female, and one more still missing." Wright looked at Don with concern. "He sent messages with each one – and each vic was someone who Shire knew, each time was a little more personal. In the final note, the killer claimed he would take someone close to him. Shire immediately thought of his wife, Joan, but it was too late - the killer had already managed to get to her. That was three weeks ago. They still haven't found her."

Don suddenly shot to his feet, terror in his eyes. "Oh, my God – Robin!"

He ran for the door, pulling out his cell phone at the same time, and hit speed dial as he stumbled through the doorway, heedless of their eyes on him. At her voice, he sagged against a file cabinet in relief. "Robin?"

"Yes – Don, what's the matter?" she asked. He could hear the concern in her voice.

"There's this case – out of Seattle - look, I can't explain this over the phone. Are you at your office?"

"Yes."

"I want you to stay there – do not leave. We're coming over."

He snapped the phone shut, and turned slowly back into the conference room, on legs suddenly weak. "I got her," he said. "She's okay. I told her we'd come over and explain."

Wright nodded. "We're going to have to put protection on her until we catch him. I don't think it's a coincidence that he picked birds, in your case." He regarded Don for a moment. "Technically, you should be pulled off something that hits this close to home, but I'm afraid we can't afford to. For better or worse, he's picked you as his contact. If we pull you off, we'll lose that."

"Maybe he'd quit, then," said Colby.

"And maybe he wouldn't," countered Don, with determination. "It's okay – as long as I know Robin's taken care of, I can keep my mind on this. I want to get this bastard."

Wright nodded. "He's already apparently done some legwork, figured out who you contact on a regular basis. You'll need to compile a list of every female you've had contact with in the last few weeks – I know you won't be able to think of all of them, especially incidental encounters, but you'll need to do your best. We'll want to try to figure out the most likely potential victims."

Don was silent. He knew exactly who could help with that kind of analysis, but he wasn't sure he wanted him on this case. He was already wishing he wasn't part of it, himself.

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End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Alice, your review made me grin and you're right, Don has quite a listing of women in his past._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 4**

"Absolutely not." Robin's eyes flashed with conviction.

"It will just be for a few weeks, maybe less, while we go after this guy," Don importuned. "This is not something to mess around with, Robin."

She tossed back a lock of dark hair, and fixed him with a determined gaze. "I have a job to do, too, Don. I can't sit holed up in some safe house for weeks. They can put surveillance on me; that's fine. You know from previous experience my apartment is easy to watch, and big enough that they can stay right in it, if they need to. My office isn't easily accessible to the public, and is also an easy place to post surveillance. I've been through something like this once already, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be shut up somewhere in a stuffy little house."

Don shot a glance out her office door – she was right about that, he had to admit. The hallway and door were easy to guard. "I still wish you'd reconsider. You don't know the extent of this -," he waved his hand, at a loss for description.

"Yes, I do," she said quietly. "When the cop showed up outside my office, I called your office back and got Colby, and made a couple of phone calls while I was waiting for you to get here. I've got a friend up in the Seattle D.A.'s office. I know exactly what this is about. Frankly, I'm more concerned about you."

Don's eyes turned dark. "The only one who should be concerned is the bastard who's sending the notes. I'm taking him down."

"You do that, agent," she said softly, with just a ghost of a smile. "I'm just not going to suspend my life while you do it – including our time together. I'm still planning on our date tomorrow night. I seem to remember you owe me a dinner for helping you clean your apartment."

Her gentle teasing finally managed to soften the stern lines of his face. "Yeah, I did promise you that; didn't I?" He leaned close to her, breathing in the light scent of her perfume.

Out in the hall, the LAPD officer turned away, suddenly embarrassed. He was supposed be watching, but he didn't need to stare at them while they locked lips.

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Late in the afternoon, Don paused in the doorway of Charlie's office, watching quietly as his brother explained the asymptotic tendencies of certain probability equations to one of his students. Don hoped the kid was getting it, because he sure wasn't, although by the dubious look on the student's face it wasn't sinking in. Charlie persevered, animatedly alternating between the student's open book on the desk and his chalkboard, passion for the discussion radiating from his face, along with a smile of unadulterated enjoyment. The only thing that his brother loved more than diving into a mathematical analysis was sharing it with others. Bringing math, in any shape or form, to anyone, was Charlie's true calling in life, no matter what level the student, or the discussion. It was a safe, sheltered world, free from ugliness, and for a moment, Don envied him. He was about to intrude on that world, he knew, with regret, about to drag the ugliness into a place where it didn't belong.

The student finally packed up his things, and Charlie, freed from the intensity of the conversation, looked up and saw him in the doorway. "Hey, Don." There was a smile of pure pleasure on his face, eagerness in his eyes, and Don felt suddenly like he didn't deserve it. Why should he deserve a reception like that, when he was about to haul his brother into this filth?

"Hey, Charlie." He moved in slowly past the student, who shot him a curious look. '_Yeah, kid, I'm the fed brother you've heard about,' _he thought to himself. "Charlie, I've got something I need you to look at."

"Sure," said Charlie easily, glancing at the slim file in Don's hand. "What is it?"

"Let's sit down for a minute."

Charlie shot him a searching look, and then shrugged. "Okay." They moved to his desk, and Charlie pulled a chair up alongside his, so they could sit side by side. "What's up?"

"We've got – someone- who is being sent notes by a man, who we think is a serial killer. The killer targets victims who this – person – knows; all female. We think he scopes them out in advance. If the guy provided a list of women he's contacted, could you pick out the most likely victims?"

"I could," said Charlie slowly. "I'd need a lot of info for it to have any accuracy. What period of time are we looking at?"

"The killer was in Seattle, doing the same thing to another man, three weeks ago, so it would probably be women the guy has contacted in the last three weeks."

Charlie shook his head, his expression clouding. "I don't get it – he's killing women to get back at this guy? Wouldn't they all be someone close to him? Maybe we'd be better off looking at who wanted revenge against this – guy. Who is he, anyway?"

Don tightened his lips, reluctantly. "Me."

Charlie stared at him, his eyes widening in surprise and apprehension. "You? What's going on?"

"Look, Charlie," Don sighed, "I don't want you and Dad getting all freaked out about this. In fact, the less you tell Dad, the better. This killer targeted the SAC of the Seattle office first. We don't think it was revenge – we think he was taunting him – it's a power trip. He'd send these cryptic notes beforehand, to try to see if the agent could figure them out before he took the women. He – killed - his victims, and left them to be found. The killer ended up taking the SAC's wife – they still haven't found her. We think he considered that to be the end of his chain of killings in that area, and now he's moved here."

"And he's targeting you." Charlie was pale, and a little breathless.

Don nodded soberly. "The bird thing was the beginning of it. I got a note yesterday, and a video today. The first target was a woman who works for Judge Wilson, who I last saw two and a half weeks ago."

Charlie looked suddenly horrified. "Robin!"

Don held up a hand. It hadn't taken his brother long to make that leap of logic. "We already have her under protection. She doesn't go anywhere other than her apartment and her office, unless I approve it, and she's always under guard."

Charlie's brow knit. "So you're making a pre-emptive move to thwart his plans for his probable final target – and you want me to find out who he meant to target in between? You realize, you're dealing with Heisenberg here – your observation of her may get him to change what he's doing, completely."

"Yeah, we realize that. This guy's cocky, though – we're thinking he may just proceed as planned, figuring he'll come up with some way to pull it off in the end, right under our noses. What we want to do is stop him long before then – to stop him before he hits the next victim."

"Okay," said Charlie. He still looked rattled, but he spoke relatively evenly. That calmness was belied by his shaking hand, as he reached for Don's file. "What's in here?"

"Not much," Don admitted. "The note from yesterday; and my first attempt at a list."

Charlie opened it, and scanned the list. "I'll need circumstances around when you saw them – where, the date, the time of day, why." He picked up a copy of the note, and frowned, as he read. '_Agent Eppes: The cardinal chirps cheerfully, blazing red. Someone you know, who serves another.' _"What does this mean?"

Don cleared his throat. "It's a description of the first target. She has red hair, I know her, and she – works for Judge Wilson." He had paused at the word, "works," not sure whether to use present or past tense. She could still be alive, he thought to himself, stubbornly. Maybe they'd find her in time – although he knew that was already most likely a fool's hope. "If you have any thoughts on where he might have taken her, we could use that too."

"Taken her? He took her already?" Charlie looked dismayed. "How do you know?"

"We received a video. You don't need to watch it. I'll give you a description of what the place looked like."

Charlie stared at him, trying to read his expression. "Okay," he said uncertainly. He couldn't fight down the feeling of dread creeping down his back, raising the hair on the back of his neck. He fought it back with an effort. "All right. Let's go over your list."

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Amita stirred, and blinked at the bright sunlight peeking in around the airy custom drapes, painfully aware she'd had too much champagne the night before. The last week had been a fast-paced fun-filled blur, spent primarily with her cousins, especially her cousin Charu. She had always been closest to Charu out of all her family, and although Amita hadn't seen her in years, she found that her cousin had grown into an intelligent, pretty, vivacious girl, who most definitely knew how to have fun.

Fun was easy to have these days, in Delhi. India was in the midst of a cultural, intellectual, and economic renaissance, and the week had been filled with shopping, sightseeing, and parties, even a Bollywood musical. Many of the parties had been at the houses of family or friends of the Ramanujans; all of them well off, ensconced in Delhi society. Their money was new – it had been earned, but they were a crowd of doctors and company heads, and there was plenty of it. It was a much glitzier life-style than she was used to, a far cry from her homey, academic life with Charlie. It was fun, though, she had to admit – and exciting.

Last night had been a little too exciting; she thought with a groan, as she lay back on her pillow and put a hand on her forehead. She was still at Charu's parents' home; they had hosted the party, and it had been the highlight of the week so far. Giddy on champagne, she had flirted outrageously with Ajay Guthikonda, who had been part of their entourage all week, and had made no secret of the fact that he was interested in Amita. He was tall, extremely handsome, personable, and already had a law degree and a master's in business. Oh, and he just happened to be the son of a very rich Delhi banker. Charu had purposely invited him to all of their outings, and by the time last night had rolled around, he had become Amita's unofficial escort.

She winced, as the memories of the evening came back to her. Mugging with her friends and her cousins for the camera, glasses raised, the laughter, the music. Ajay, the dancing, and the champagne had been a bad combination, and she had found herself on a moonlit, flower-laden balcony, unexpectedly immersed in a kiss. It had been thankfully interrupted by Charu and her friends pouring out through the balcony doors, laughing. Amita flushed deeply, as she remembered it – what had she been thinking?

The door burst open – Charu never entered a room at anything less than top speed, and she flung herself on Amita's bed breathlessly. "Are you ever going to get up? We have so much to do today." She smiled, her eyes sparkling. "Did you not have fun last night?"

"Oh, yes," sighed Amita. "It was a little too fun, I think."

"Nonsense! One cannot have too much fun," Charu teased. Her expression suddenly softened, turned pleading. "You see, I have been telling you – you need to move here. There are unbelievable opportunities for someone with your intelligence, your background. We would have so much fun together." She smiled, slyly. "And I know it would make Ajay very happy, also."

Amita blushed to roots of her hair. "I can't believe I did that, last night. It was stupid – I'm already involved with someone."

"Oh, that Sharlie," said Charu, with disgust. She pronounced the "ch" in his name as "sh," as she did her own. "What do you see in him, anyway? Boring old stuffy professor."

"He's not old," replied Amita, wryly. "He's actually a few months younger than I am."

Charu shrugged. "Still, the life you have there cannot compare with this. And he, I am sure, cannot compare with Ajay." She flounced off the bed, and flung a parting jab over her shoulder, with a wicked smile. "Admit, it cousin – you liked that kiss."

Amita winced again as the door slammed, and then opened her eyes slowly. Her fingertips crept to her lips, along with a disquieting feeling in her heart. The truth was; she _had_ liked that kiss.

Her cell phone buzzed suddenly, and she sat up and grabbed for it, her heart thumping with unexplained panic. She froze for a moment as she saw the number, and then slowly opened the phone. "Charlie. Hi."

Charlie sat on his bed, his room dark except for a light from a small lamp, and his heart leapt a little at the sound of her voice. He smiled. "Hi – you must be pretty busy these days – you haven't called."

"Oh, yeah, we've been _really_ busy," responded Amita hastily. She was beginning to recognize the odd feeling in her gut – it was guilt. "I'm just getting up now."

"Oh – I'm sorry – I didn't mean to wake you," said Charlie, apologetically. "I didn't realize -,"

"No, it's okay," Amita interjected. "My parents' friends and family have been holding parties for me – it means some late nights. The last couple of mornings I've gotten up so late, I was afraid to call – I thought you'd be in bed."

Charlie smiled, but uncertainty was creeping into his expression. There was something that made him wonder… He didn't realize it, but he'd unconsciously picked up on an evasive note in her voice. "Well, it sounds like you're having fun. That's great." He paused, waiting for her to ask him how his day was – ask him anything. Instead, an awkward silence descended.

"Well, I really should go," Amita said, stammering a little. She suddenly wanted to get off this call, in the worst way. "My cousin just told me we have to get going – we're going out shopping, and I'm sure you need some sleep. What time is it there, anyway?"

"One a.m.," said Charlie, his heart dropping. Granted, overseas calls were expensive, but he hadn't talked to her in three days – and apparently, she could care less. "I miss you."

"I miss you too," replied Amita, softly. "I have to go." She disconnected, and for a moment, they both just sat there, on other sides of the world, with the same uneasy expression on their faces.

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End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

_A peek into the killer's past, and the next clue..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 5**

He dumped the body in an alley. He'd removed it from the board, but he laid it out carefully, just as it had been when attached, arms and legs splayed, strips of skin radiating out from the torso, like a flower. They'd made a mistake when they'd kicked him out of medical school, he was brilliant, and gifted with a scalpel, and they knew it. During his internship, they'd caught him lifting prescription drugs from the hospital pharmacy – drugs he used to subdue the cats and dogs he practiced on in secret. He snorted in derision. Idiots. Everyone snuck meds – it was common knowledge. He'd managed to get off – he'd gotten rid of the evidence before the cops searched his place, but his medical career was ruined before it started – the chief of the University of Colorado Hospital in Denver, Dr. Randolf Cook, had made sure of that.

Now he worked construction jobs and temp jobs to make ends meet, but he had continued his hobby. Dogs and cats had morphed into women, almost by accident. The first one had been in a small town in Wyoming – he drugged her in the saloon, and took her home for some fun. It wasn't until he had her there, laid out on the bed in front of him, that it occurred to him she would be an interesting candidate for his scalpel. He'd left her and a cryptic note for the local sheriff, after the fact, just to drive the man crazy, and he'd left town – with a new pastime.

The body arranged to his satisfaction, he took a quick look around, climbed back in the van, and drove off. The next message had already been mailed – Eppes would get it in the morning. Ryan Morgan smiled to himself, his eyes luminous in the dark, like a cat. The cat that swallowed the canary. He grinned to himself, pleased with the aptness of the cliché, as the streetlights sped by, and the van cruised smoothly through the night.

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Don lay on the bed in his old bedroom, staring unblinking at the dark ceiling. He'd stayed there at Charlie's insistence, although he had reservations about doing so. Granted, there was nothing to indicate that the killer was after him, after anything other than women, but Don still felt as though his presence here was a magnet for something ugly. The man had been observing his movements, after all. It gave him an unsettling feeling to know that, to know the killer already probably knew a lot about him, his contacts, his family. Thank God, he didn't have any sisters.

The horrible images swirled in his mind, making sleep impossible; he felt as if his brain was running frantically, like a rat in a cage. He wondered how Robin was doing at her apartment, hosting two of LAPD's finest, plus Susan Jackson, a tough agent who Wright had called up from San Diego. The cops would rotate, but Susan would be a permanent sidekick for the next few days.

Most of all, he wondered what _he_ was doing – the killer. A faceless monster, without a name. A man who knew much about him, but of whom he knew nothing. A man who thought he could control Don, manipulate him. Well, birdman had better reconsider, Don thought to himself, grimly. He was messing with the wrong fed. He set his jaw and shut his eyes, and tried to drown out the vision of Cookie Myers, strapped to a board.

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Alan eyed both his boys with concern the next morning. They were all up early; the sun was just rising, promising a glorious summer day. His sons, however, appeared anything but glorious – they looked grim, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. Don had told him last evening they were working a case involving a serial killer, but hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the details – just that the man had killed some women in Seattle, and they thought he was now in L.A. Don actually had been adept at hiding how he felt about it, had delivered the information soberly, but almost casually. Maybe a little too casually, but Alan probably wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't been for Charlie. He was subdued, his dark eyes like saucers, and although he said nothing about the topic, he was clearly disturbed. Don was tough to fathom sometimes, but Alan could read Charlie like a book. This one was ugly; there was no doubt about it.

Alan poured coffee and set out bagels, his briskness a counterpoint to their somber expressions. "Charlie, did you remember to check your tux – does it need to be cleaned?"

"Yeah," he replied absently, his eyes on his coffee. "I checked it – it's okay."

"Tux?" asked Don, his brow furrowing. "What was that for again?" He had the impression he was forgetting something, which was verified as Alan replied.

"You remember, Charlie's awards dinner this Saturday. The one for the candidates for the Wolf Prize for Mathematics. I told you that you should ask Robin – it's going to be a nice reception, a lot of politicians and such – probably some people she'd like to meet."

"It's not a big deal," muttered Charlie. "It's just a dinner to honor the U.S. nominees. The actual awards aren't for a month yet."

"Nonsense, Charlie, it's a huge thing, Larry told me, just to be nominated." Alan sat, and looked pointedly at Don. "It's an international award – a very big deal."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll ask her," murmured Don. "You're right; she can always use an opportunity to make contacts." Secretly, he wondered how an event like that was going to work if Robin still had a security detail, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

"Well, you'd better get on the stick," Alan chided him. "It's only two days from now. She may want to shop for a dress." Honestly, he thought, he didn't understand either of them. This was a huge event, but Charlie apparently hadn't bothered to bring it up, and it appeared Don was less than impressed anyway. Charlie had received many awards in his lifetime, but surely, they both weren't that inured to them yet.

"You both remember that I'm leaving for Chicago on Sunday, right?" They looked at him blankly, and he sighed with resignation. He was sure he'd told them. Either he was going senile, or they'd made forgetfulness a new art form.

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The elevator doors opened, and Don emerged, heading into the bullpen with Charlie trailing, shifting the strap of his computer bag on his shoulder. Neither had talked much on the way up, each consumed with his own thoughts, and Don noticed belatedly how quiet Charlie was, just as they reached the top. Something was bothering him, but the doors were opening, and there wasn't time to ask.

As early as they were, David and Colby were there ahead of them.

"Wright is on his way here with Mike Shire – he got in late last night," Colby said. "He's bringing his profiler with him, Jill Cash. I guess she worked with him on the Seattle case."

Don inclined his head toward the conference room, and they followed. "I brought Charlie in – he's going to analyze my list for us. Did we get any prints off the note or the disk?"

Colby shook his head, as they filed through the door. "Nada. He obviously wore gloves. The last place Cookie was seen was a boutique, where she bought a jacket. There was a surveillance camera on the back lot, run by an outfit two blocks away, which handles security for the area – I guess those lots see quite a few expensive cars. The camera went out a few minutes after she went into the shop – the wiring was cut. It runs along the second story, goes around a corner, and comes down the side in an alley, where it travels into a box on the inside of the building. The camera can't see into the alley – that's where the wire was cut. The security outfit had a crew there within twenty minutes, but they were gone by then."

Don headed for a chair, but didn't sit. "Any word on her?"

David shook his head. "None."

"Liz wants on this case," said Colby quietly. "She went to Wright to ask him yesterday. He said he'd have to clear it with you."

"Yeah, we can use all the help we can get on this -," Don broke off suddenly, looking stricken. "Jesus – Liz – she's on my list – we should probably get some protection on her, too."

Colby rubbed the back of his head and looked at his shoes. "Yeah – well, she kinda had protection last night." They all looked at him, and he reddened. "Not like that. I had the same thought – I went over to her place, we talked and had a beer or two, and I just camped out on her sofa."

Don and David exchanged a dry smile, and Don shot Colby an amused glance. "You don't have explain, Granger, it's okay. Actually, that's not a bad idea, if you can stomach the assignment. Of course, I'll have to run it past her."

Colby tried to look nonchalant. "Yeah, I think I could probably stomach that."

"I'll bet," muttered David in his ear, and Colby flushed. Even Charlie was grinning at him.

"Maybe I'll go call her – she ought to be in this meeting, then." He escaped out the door, head down.

Charlie set his laptop down on the table, with a meaningful glance out the conference room window. "I think they're here. I'm going to set up my computer."

Don looked up to see Wright and the two agents heading for the conference room. He'd met Shire before, briefly, at a regional conference, but he wouldn't have recognized him. He knew Shire had to be around his age, but he looked like he'd aged ten years; he was haggard and worn, with a desperate, haunted look in his eyes. His wife's abduction had obviously hit him hard, and Don swallowed, thinking of Robin. There was no way he was going there, no way. He was going to nail the bastard, long before that. He stepped forward and offered his hand to Shire, who took it. "Mike. Thanks for coming."

Shire smiled; a sad and painful grimace. "No need to thank me, Eppes. Wild horses wouldn't keep me from this. Don, this is Jill Cash, profiler from the Seattle office."

Don shook her hand, and introduced her to the group, as Charlie took in the newcomers. Shire was a bit taller than Don, with a thin face and an aquiline nose, his dark hair already flecked with gray, although he appeared to be close to Don's age. Jill Cash was slender and tall, with a pixie, almost punk hair cut, although she'd sleeked her auburn locks into something more tame for the office. She had sharp green eyes, and Charlie felt them on him as tied his computer into the projection system.

"The famous Dr. Eppes – we've heard a lot about you up in Seattle," she said.

Charlie looked up with an abashed smile. "Well – thank you – I think." He broke off, his attention captured by Colby, who re-entered, holding up a Courier Express envelope.

He held it out to Don. "I think we've got another one." Liz stepped up behind Colby, quietly.

Don glanced at Wright, and looked down, flipping the envelope over, examining it. "Same thing. He's consistent – he keeps using Courier Express."

David nodded. "We're tracking them back – each one has been mailed from a different drop-off. LAPD is looking at a list of men who mailed envelopes around the drop-off times."

Charlie spoke up. "If you give me the locations, I may be able to infer something from that, perhaps pin him down to an operating area."

Don had the envelope open, and Charlie watched, his face tense, as his brother drew out a folded sheet of paper and stared at it intently; then laid it down on the conference room table. They clustered around it, and Charlie read:

_Agent Eppes:_

_The canary sings in its gilded cage. _

_Someone who serves you._

"'Someone who serves you,'" recited David. "He used the term 'serves' with Cookie, to mean that she worked for Judge Wilson."

Shire spoke up. "He used similar terminology in my notes. In every case, it meant someone who worked for me, or with me."

Don glanced at him, and then away quickly. Shire's hands were trembling, and he'd tried to hide that fact by jamming them in his pockets. The man was a wreck. "So, it's someone who works here, in this building, most likely, and judging by the fact that a canary is yellow, she would be a blonde."

Charlie had projected the list of names that Don had given on the screen, and the others turned to look at it as he spoke. "Judging by the limitations of this building, she may or may not be on this list, Don. You have to figure, the killer doesn't have access to the building – it's likely that he wouldn't be able to clear security, and it would be extremely risky for him to try. He can see you come and go, but it would be hard for him to know who you have contact with once you're in here. He can only surmise, by watching who else enters and leaves, that you have contact with the person, or that you at least know who they are, by virtue of the fact that they work in the same building. Or it may be someone you work with outside the building. We need to expand this list."

"It's an easy matter to find the blonde females who work here," said Liz. "All we have to do is pull up the directory on the computer – everyone's picture is in there. I can do that." Don's cell phone vibrated; and he stepped aside to corner of the room to answer.

"We need to call over to LAPD, the judicial building, and anywhere else we can think of, and have them do the same thing," said Wright.

"I'll need those names as soon as possible," said Charlie earnestly. "I need to know if they actually had contact with Don in the last three weeks or not, the nature of the working relationship, and if they did have contact - where, when and why – any details you can give me."

Don had snapped his phone shut, and stepped back toward the group, his face pale. "They found Cookie," he said quietly. "She's dead."

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End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews - you wonderful folks are all over the place with your conjectures, and they're all great possibilities, but only a few of them are right. Of course, I'm not going to tell you which ones..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 6**

Ryan Morgan drove by the drop location later that morning on his way in to the temp agency. The redhead had only partially satisfied his needs; the craving that had been building up for three weeks. He was anxious to get to the next victim, but that wouldn't happen until later that day. It was a good thing, really; it was a chance for Eppes to absorb the full implications of what had happened, and an opportunity to build stress, anxiety, as he desperately tried to identify the next potential victim. That was part of the goal – to toy with the man in charge, to play with his mind, maybe even get him to break.

He didn't stop, just drove by the alley, but he saw Eppes, and someone else who made him smile – Mike Shire. He'd expected that the agent would show up, although he didn't think that the Bureau would make the connection so soon. In fact, if they hadn't, he was planning to send them information so they would link the killings. He wanted the credit, and after all, they were purposely intertwined. Shire's wife was the baton, the handoff. She would die as soon as he obtained Eppes' last victim, and he wanted Shire to be here, to be involved in the futile attempts to stop it. He would destroy him, and then he would break Eppes.

The temp agency was not just a way to kill time – Morgan had much to do, and hated to spend the time working. It was a necessary evil, however; he was running out of money. His parents were well off, but his father had cut him off after his ouster from the medical profession. His mother occasionally snuck him some money, but it wasn't nearly enough. He'd had to find jobs where he could. Construction jobs were better paying, but construction had nearly ground to a halt because of the economy. Longer-term office jobs were hard to come by also – few companies were hiring, plus he was new to the area. He'd had to scrounge for what he could get lately through the temp agency, under an assumed name, of course – mostly event support, such as the parking attendant job he'd gotten last week for the baseball game. Today, as he scanned the list of what was available, something caught his eye. "What's this?" he asked the assignment coordinator, a heavy-set surly man with a permanent sneer.

"Some gala at the Wilshire Hotel – some awards dinner – let me see…" He punched the keys on his computer. "It's listed by the hotel as Wolf Mathematics Award Dinner. They need busboys, servers."

As soon as the coordinator read the title of the event, Ryan knew what it was. He'd run across an article on it two weeks ago on the computer at the library, when he was searching the name 'Eppes.' The agent's brother was going to be one of the honorees, and therefore the agent might be there too, maybe even his girlfriend. It might be an interesting opportunity to pick up information - perhaps even make a move. "Yeah, put me in as a server," he said.-

"Okay." The coordinator scanned the list. "I won't even need to call you back - that position still needs staffed, there's no waiting list. You got it. It says to show up at the hotel for dress requirements and job details on Friday morning- tomorrow - at eight a.m. I'll put your name in."

"Perfect, thanks," said Morgan, and flashed dazzling white teeth. He was truly irresistible – even the sour-faced coordinator cracked a smile in return.

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Don stepped into the conference room early that evening, and flung himself wearily into a chair across from Charlie, who was bent over his laptop with a frown. Charlie looked as exhausted as Don felt; he'd run to teach a class that morning while the list of possible victims was being compiled, and then had returned directly to the office to tackle the data. By four p.m., he'd finished his analysis. There were over fifty women on the list who worked either in the FBI building or in other organizations with which Don interfaced, far too many to try to watch. They'd had Charlie identify the top twelve prospects, and had put surveillance on them. Then they had sent warnings out to the others, urging them to make arrangements to stay with someone until the threat was over.

Needless to say, in spite of their requests for the women to keep the information confidential, rumors were flying all through the L.A. law enforcement and judicial systems. The press already had Cookie's story – it had been on the evening news; no details, just the fact that the body of an area woman had been found in an alley in Watts. Although publicity was being kept to a minimum, it would only be a matter of time before the serial killer angle and the connection to Seattle leaked. Don knew the job would get a lot more difficult at that point – the investigation would be under scrutiny by the mayor, the D.A.'s office, possibly the governor, and FBI top management. They would all have their own opinions of how things should be run, and would be demanding time-consuming press releases and reports. Now though, it was six-thirty p.m., and for the time being, they seemed to have things under control.

Charlie had barely acknowledged him – he seemed completely engrossed in his work, a worried frown on his forehead, and Don tried to draw him out. "Hey, Buddy, what are you working on?"

Charlie sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I went in and put the rest of the list in order of probability. We have to consider the possibility that, if he decides he can't get at his first choices, he may move down the list. Now I'm trying to look at the Courier Express drop points to see if I can pin down an area of operation for him. I just don't have enough data points to get a good read yet."

"Yeah, well, you should probably knock it off for a while then, right? If you don't have data, there's not much you can do. I'd rest up, in case we need you tomorrow."

Charlie looked at him, anxiety and fatigue in his eyes. "You should stay at my place tonight – maybe we can order pizza or something."

Don shook his head, gently. "Actually, I'll probably stay with Robin. We originally had plans to go out, but that won't be happening. I'm picking up dinner instead, and I'll stay with her. She won't admit it, but she's kind of freaked out by it all, and is going a little stir-crazy to boot. And if you're worrying about me – don't. I'm not a target here – at least not physically."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, but I'm reasonably certain, Charlie. He's only picked women as his victims, and he never went after Shire, did he? With me and Shire, he's on a power trip – it's a mental game, not physical. And besides, I'll be at Robin's tonight – there are two LAPD officers outside in her apartment hallway at all times."

Charlie looked back at him for a moment; then indicated the FBI computer sitting near his one laptop. "There's a disk in there."

"Yeah. Colby'll get it before he leaves. He wants to look at it again, see if he can determine anything about where the killer is taking his victims."

"I could use that."

"I know you can, Buddy, but I'll tell you right now, it's hard to tell where it is by looking at the video – I don't know how much help it will be. The killer put up sheets – we can't get a good look at the room."

Charlie frowned, his eyes troubled. "How did he kill her?"

Don was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was curt. "Trust me on this, Charlie, you don't want to know."

"It might have a bearing on my analysis."

Don's face hardened. "No it won't. If I change my mind on that I'll tell you, but right now you don't need that." He rose, any softness stripped away, and Charlie could see the strain in his face. "Go home and get some rest."

It was a command, not a request, but Charlie sat there without moving. Moments later, he saw his brother head out of the bullpen with Wright, undoubtedly to give him an update. He stared at the computer for a moment; then moved suddenly, rolling his chair over to it, and started the disk, with a quick look over his shoulder.

The initial scene, with Cookie bound to the chair, made him take in his breath, quickly, but it was nothing compared with what followed. He stared numbly, incapacitated by horror, and suddenly rose stumbling to his feet, casting about desperately for a trashcan. He got to it just in time, collapsing into the wall as he lost the contents of his stomach, and leaned against it, eyes closed, panting.

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Susan Jackson, the woman agent who'd been assigned to stay with Robin, was grateful for a night off – she had friends in L.A., and as soon as Don showed up, bearing an overnight bag and takeout, she headed out for dinner. Robin greeted him with a hug as soon as the door was closed, and he held her close for a minute. "Holding up okay?"

"Yeah. I have to admit, it's a little freaky being a target again, so soon." She smiled at him. "At least I can relax a little now. Susan's nice, but it's tough having a stranger in your home all the time."

Don smiled at her, and fingered a strand of silky dark hair. "Oh, so I relax you, huh?"

She grinned back, a little mischievously. "Most of the time." She kissed him deeply, running her hands through his hair, pulling him slowly back toward her bedroom. "Now's not one of them."

An hour later, they were showered and dressed in more comfortable clothes, lounging on her sofa, eating microwaved Chinese food. She watched as Don picked absently at the contents of his container. "You asked me how I was holding up. Maybe I ought to ask you that question."

He shook his head, and sighed. "Okay, I guess." He looked up and caught her eyes, his own dark, and for just a moment, unguarded. "This one's pretty bad." Silence fell, and then he said, "Maybe we should talk about something else."

"Okay, what?"

His gaze drifted off. "There was something I was supposed to ask you…oh, yeah. My dad wanted to know if we wanted to come an awards dinner for Charlie on Saturday. I think it's at the Wilshire." He looked at her apologetically. "I don't even know if that's possible, right now."

She shrugged. "Why not? Actually, I'll be dying to get out by then. We'll be with a bunch of people, and you'll be with me. We can even bring along the Blues Brothers."

He chuckled softly. "Blues Brothers?"

She grinned. "Yeah, the LAPD guys outside – the one looks just like Ellwood, doesn't he? Look at him when you go out. I bet you won't be able to keep a straight face."

Don shrugged and grinned. "I guess it could work – you've got to be really desperate to get out if you want to go to dinner with a bunch of math professors."

She smiled wickedly and ran the tip of her tongue along her fork. "Oh, yeah, I'm a desperate woman."

"You keep doing that, and I won't make it through dinner."

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Mike Shire sat on the bed in hotel room, staring at her picture, not even conscious that a full twenty minutes had passed. He wasn't thinking straight these days; his mind had been bludgeoned into a fog by horror, stress, and grief. The only thing that kept him going was the hope that she was still alive.

A knock sounded on his door, and he heard Jill's rich alto. "Hey Mike, you ready?"

He looked at his watch in surprise at the time – twenty minutes already? Jill Cash had talked him into going to dinner with her, obviously afraid he wouldn't eat.

He ran a hand gently over the corner of the frame, as if caressing her. "I'm coming, Joanie," he whispered. "Just hold out a little longer." He blinked back the tears, then slowly stood and set the picture on his nightstand, and headed for the door.

As they walked down the hall, Jill chattered away, with just a little too much animation. She'd spiked her dark hair a little, put on makeup, and looked – actually pretty – thought Shire, with a hint of surprise. Jill had a definite edge to her – she was outspoken, with a keen intelligence, but Shire knew she had a soft side. "Hey, how about Eppes – the math guy – Charlie? We'd heard about some of the stuff the L.A. office was doing, but it was kind of neat to see it firsthand. I didn't realize he was so young. He's actually kind of cute."

That statement finally brought a smile to Shire's face, and she punched his shoulder. "See, I knew I could get a grin out of you. Let's go eat steak."

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End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Sorry for the delay...here's 7. Some of you will be patting yourselves on the back._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 7**

Ryan Morgan had spent some time watching the next victim. He'd spotted her the second day he'd trailed Eppes; she worked right across the street at the Java Jive, a trendy coffee shop, its window a garish display of bright gold lettering. Two or three morning a week, Eppes would stop in for coffee, sometimes just for himself, sometimes for him and his girlfriend. He would always be waited on by the pretty blonde who worked the cash register in the mornings. Her name, Morgan had found out, was Amber Peterson. He'd found out a lot more than that as he followed her the next day.

She got off every morning at eleven a.m., relieved by the lunch crew, and headed home immediately. Home was a hike – it was a seedy little apartment in an outlying suburb – she obviously couldn't afford much. There she'd grab lunch, and head off to a second job at a local bookstore. She went straight from there to night classes at a technical school, studying what, he didn't know. It didn't matter.

The best place to take her, he'd decided, was at her apartment, when she came home at night. The complex contained individual three story buildings, each containing twenty-four apartments, each with its own small parking lot behind it. Although it was dark, to be safe, he wore a wig, something with longish dark hair, which made him look like a member of a rock band. His assessment of Amber, with her pierced nose and the modest tattoo on the back of her neck, was that she was essentially a hard-working girl who liked just a touch of 'bad boy' in her men. As she pulled into the parking area behind her apartment, and saw him approaching her van, he could tell by the interested glint in her eye that he'd guessed correctly.

He'd donned jeans and a plain navy jacket, and carried a pizza. He'd written the address of the neighboring building on a slip of paper, and had parked his van, which was a plain white utilitarian Chevy that actually looked like a delivery van, and as she pulled into her parking spot, he walked toward her with a look of abject confusion.

"I'm sorry, Miss?" She rolled down the window of the driver's side door only a crack; she was a bit suspicious, but he knew his looks were already winning her over. He flashed a dazzling, slightly apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm trying to deliver this pizza, and these building numbers are confusing. Can you tell me – is this address in this building?"

She still didn't open the door, but she rolled the window down further, took the paper, and looked at it. He reached in quickly with the needle, and the syringe had dumped its load in her trapezoid before she could even jerk away. Her head turned, shock in her eyes, and she began to scrabble frantically at the switch for the window with one hand, and for her keys with the other. He reached in as she fumbled with them, her hands already not obeying the commands her brain was giving them, took them from her, and put his hand over her mouth, forcing her head against the headrest until she went limp. Her head rolled, lolling sideways, and he strode away from her and pulled the white delivery van up next to her car, and slipped on some gloves. Seconds later, she was in the back of the van, and they were away.

A few miles down the road, he stopped in a secluded park, wiped down her car keys, and tossed them in the underbrush. He removed his gloves and his wig and then changed his license plate, in the event that someone had been looking out of the windows of the apartments. He needn't have bothered – with televisions blaring the evening's programs, no one at the apartment building had heard or seen them.

He glanced in the back at his unconscious victim. "Yellow bird, coming home to roost," he said softly to himself and smiled, as the almost unbearable excitement began to build inside him.

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Charlie trudged wearily up the stairs, lugging his computer. He'd stopped at CalSci after leaving the FBI offices, and worked on the next morning's lesson plan, as well as he could – he was having a hard time concentrating, trying to pull his mind away from the horrors of the day. Thank goodness, it was the summer session, and his class load was light. He hadn't gotten home until after nine, and had muttered to his father that he'd already eaten, when Alan pointed out there were leftovers in the refrigerator. Food was the last thing on his mind, and he escaped to his room.

He booted up his laptop and stared at it for a minute, and then sighed, and clicked open his email. The case was weighing on his mind, and he knew it had to be worse for Don. His only consolation was that his brother was tough, and had some practice with dealing with ugliness. How did one deal with this, though, wondered Charlie? No one could possibly be immune to something so terrible.

Even as distracted as he was, he couldn't help but notice the email entitled "Amita." It was from someone named Charu Manchanda, which at first he didn't recognize, but then remembered – Amita had said something in one of her phone calls about Charu – a cousin, if he remembered right. Curious, he double-clicked, opening the email. At first, he thought it was just a friendly letter, but as he read it, his stomach tightened.

_Dear Charlie,_

_My name is Charu Manchanda, and I am Amita's cousin in Delhi. She has been having a wonderful time here, and is enjoying it very much. I have enclosed some photos of her. There is tremendous opportunity in India these days, as I am sure you know. Amita could make quite a name for herself here. She had also made a number of friends, as you can see in the photos. _

_I will be very frank with you. She is very interested in coming here, but she is torn because of her relationship with you. The life she could have here is far superior to what she currently has, and she would be surrounded by family and friends. I ask you, if you sincerely care about her, to put aside your needs, and to think of hers. When she comes back to the United States to talk to you about this, please, for her sake, do not stand in her way._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Charu Manchanda_

By the time he was finished reading, Charlie's gut was in a knot. He couldn't help but think of the awkward conversation that morning with Amita, and he hesitated for a moment before opening the first photo, the cursor hovering over it. He took a deep breath. Perhaps Charu was mistaken; she had misread Amita. Or, even if Amita had been swept away by the excitement of being in Delhi, she might still have no intention of staying there. People often loved the spots they vacationed in – it didn't mean they would seriously consider moving there.

Bolstered by the thought, he clicked on the first picture. It was of Amita and another girl - probably Charu - in a beautiful plaza, smiling, with their arms around each other. Three more pictures followed; group pictures of Amita and other young people, in evening dress, at what looked like expensive homes. They were leaning on each other, smiling and laughing, and looked like an advertisement for a fashion magazine. Amita did look happy – really happy, he thought, his heart sinking. Another photo of her with her parents, and then another group photo. In all of the group photos, there was a young handsome man next to her, and in that one, he had an arm around her. Charlie could feel a spiraling sense of desperation, as he clicked on the last picture.

It was like a knife to the heart. Amita and the same young man were standing on a balcony, in what was most decidedly not a cousinly kiss. It was dark, but the camera flash and the light spilling out onto the balcony from inside illuminated the figures against flowers and moonlight. Charlie sat frozen - he just stared it, stunned, feeling as though his life was spinning away, as if a piece of his soul had been torn from him.

When he finally moved, he didn't even bother to log off; he just reached out and closed his laptop, and put his head down on his arms.

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Don had just finished buttoning his shirt when his cell phone buzzed. It was not quite six a.m. Friday morning, and he grabbed it immediately – he'd told Colby, who was coordinating the surveillance on the potential victims; to call him immediately if there was an attempt on one of them. As he saw Charlie's home phone on the screen, he breathed a sigh of relief. That relief was short-lived.

"Donnie." His father's voice came over the receiver, decidedly perturbed.

"Yeah, Dad." Don could hear Robin out in the kitchen, making coffee.

"What is this case you have Charlie working on?"

"I told you – it's the serial killer. Why?"

Alan hesitated. "Well, it's just – he came home last night, looking – oh, you know how he gets – broody – and this morning, he looked awful, like he hadn't slept a wink all night. He took off already for your office – hardly said two words. Maybe this one's a bit too much for him."

Don tried slipping a sock on one-handed, holding the phone to his ear with the other, frowning. "Okay, look, he's supposed to stop by, first thing – I'm on my way in myself. I'll talk to him."

Alan sounded relieved. "Good – so you're taking him off, then?"

Sock on, Don put his foot down for equilibrium, and paused for a moment. "I don't know, Dad – we could really use him on this. Let me talk to him, see if I can help ease his mind a little." _Fat chance of that,_ he thought to himself. _I can't even ease my own mind about this one._

Alan tried to keep the critical note out of his voice, but it was there. "Well, based on his reaction, I think you're asking a little much this time."

"Look, Dad," replied Don a little impatiently as he struggled, hopping, with his other sock, "we don't even know if it's the case that's bugging him. And you know how he can be – moody – he's down one minute and up the next. Just let me talk to him first, okay?" _I'm the one who ought to be brooding, _he thought with a bit of irritation_. The goddamned stuff is aimed at me. _Alan didn't know that, however, and Don wanted to keep it that way. "I'll talk to you later."

At his father's good-bye, he disconnected, and headed for the kitchen, tucking his shirttails into his pants. If he moved, he'd have a chance to talk to Charlie before the 7:00 a.m. meeting.

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Joanie Shire huddled with her arms around her knees and regarded the sobbing woman on the floor. He'd come back with her last night, a pretty blonde – so young, probably not even twenty. He'd placed her in a chair, and when she woke, he'd taken pictures this time, instead of a video, printing them out on the computer and printer that he had on a nearby desk. He'd taken a picture of Joanie too, surprising her; she'd looked up blankly into the camera, and he printed that picture too. Then he'd tied the girl's wrists and ankles, and removed her from the chair, stretching her prone on the floor with some kind of pulley system, and had beaten and raped her repeatedly. After that he'd slept, and had gotten up early, leaving before six a.m.

Joanie had seen all of it, had seen him kill the one before this. That one had broken her; numbed her like some kind of awful Lidocaine. She was beyond feeling now – her mind nearly shattered by the horrors she had witnessed. She had watched as he had set up his board just before he left, checking the bindings, and she knew when he returned, he would do to the young blonde girl what he had done to the redhead. And she would close her eyes again, and cover her ears, and pray to God to take her from this hell.

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End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 8**

Charlie sat in the conference room and stared at the grainy pictures, pulling them one by one out of the slim manila folder. He'd gotten up early that morning and printed out his lecture plan for the day on his printer at school, so it would be ready and waiting when he got back from the FBI offices. He'd also printed out the pictures of Amita.

Why, he wasn't sure. A half-loopy line of thought ran through his mind – he knew he needed to set his personal life aside for now – there wasn't much he could do about it until she came back. She'd tried to call him last night, but he hadn't answered. He refused to speak about it over the phone with her – the least she could do was talk it out face-to-face. However, in the meantime, he had to get it off his mind, and concentrate on the case. Somehow, he thought that if he printed the pictures in order to confront her when she came back, and then filed them away until she got home, that symbolic gesture would help him set it aside until she was here. The only problem was, when he took off for the FBI offices, he somehow had forgotten to file the pictures. They had come along for the ride.

He groaned softly, shook himself, and stuffed the pictures into the file, and shoved it haphazardly back into his briefcase, just as Don walked into the conference room.

His brother sat down across from him, and leaned back, sipping his coffee. "You're here early." The remark was mild, but Charlie was uncomfortably aware of Don's eyes, keenly appraising him over the cup of coffee. Charlie knew that look. He was about to be interrogated.

He was saved, at least temporarily, by a soft knock on the door – one of the office cleaning staff was making early morning rounds. She entered at Don's nod, and headed straight for the trashcan, and Charlie couldn't help himself – he winced, and the guilty grimace didn't go unnoticed. Charlie waited for the woman to make some comment about the stomach contents in the trashcan, but she just checked it and walked out. He breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, the night cleaning crew had gotten the dubious honor of removing the mess he'd made. Thank goodness for plastic wastebasket liners.

"You watched the video, didn't you?" Don voice was expressionless, like his eyes, and Charlie looked up guiltily, and then down at his briefcase on the table.

"Yeah." He sat, waiting for the lecture.

"You remember I told you not to."

His bother's voice was still quiet, emotionless, and Charlie chanced a glance at him. "Yeah."

"Are you glad you did?"

Charlie dropped his eyes again, closed them. "No," he whispered.

Don surveyed him for a moment. Charlie did look whipped – he hadn't bothered to shave, and he looked exhausted, beaten. "It's bad enough you're working on this, Charlie. Don't make it any harder than it has to be. I don't think your consultant's fee pays you any extra for mental trauma."

Charlie nodded, and lifted his eyes. "This is really bad," he said, his voice a little unsteady.

Some deep and dark flickered in Don's eyes, and he nodded. "Yeah," he said softly. "It is."

Charlie looked over his shoulder, and Don turned in his seat. Wright, Shire, and Cash were filing in, and Colby, David, and Liz were also converging on the conference room.

Charlie rose and began fiddling with his laptop, and Jill Cash entered and walked over to him, as the rest of them exchanged 'good mornings.' "Hi," she said. "I'm going to grab a cup of coffee; you want me to get you one?"

Charlie lifted an eyebrow, and looked up into bright green eyes that were just slightly above his. He smiled wanly. "Why – do I look like I need it?"

She grinned. "You said it, not me."

"Actually, I do," said Charlie, as he plugged in his laptop to the Bureau Ethernet. "Thanks."

She returned his grateful smile with a cheeky grin, and turned on her heel, returning with two cups of coffee, as Colby took the front of the room, and went over the report from the evening.

"I had all protection units, plus the possible candidates who weren't under protection report out periodically, the last report being this morning between six and seven. Everyone reported in as requested," he said. "There was no word of any attempts, and LAPD didn't have any word of attacks last night, at least other than the usual gang stuff."

The group breathed a collective sigh of relief, and Colby continued. "A lot of them are on their way to work now, as soon as they get in, they'll report again."

David spoke up. "We picked up DNA of the perp from the victim."

'_Victim_,' thought Don. '_Not Cookie, anymore – victim_.'

David was continuing, and Don wrenched his attention back to him. "We got a rush analysis done – preliminary results don't show a match to anyone in the system. We'll get a more detailed result later today, but it doesn't look promising."

"You won't get anything," said Mike Shire quietly. "We ran it too. Whoever he is, he's not in the system."

"The lab did find a sedative," said David, glancing down at the report in his hand.

Jill Cash spoke up. "That fits his M.O. We found injection sites and trace amounts of sedatives in the other victims. We suspect he has medical training, based on his knowledge of sedatives, and use of syringes and scalpels. We've been looking at doctors who have possibly lost their medical license."

Liz frowned. "How does he get them in a situation where he can inject them? I wonder why they let him get so close, without a struggle."

Jill answered him. "He is quite likely either very unassuming, non-threatening, or possibly good-looking and personable. We think he charms his way into getting close to them. Based on the videos, I tend to believe the second possibility. We couldn't see his features, but we know he's tall and muscular, and quite strong. That rules out non-threatening – and makes it more likely that he's good-looking, clean cut. A white male, obviously, both from his voice and the small amount of skin we could see during the rape."

Her voice was matter of fact, but the statement made Charlie's stomach churn. He reached for his coffee, as Marcy appeared in the door, a troubled look on her face. She was holding a Courier Express envelope – _two_ envelopes, Charlie realized, as she separated them, and immediately, the tone in the room changed - the businesslike atmosphere gone, replaced by foreboding. He gulped as his hand sloshed more coffee into his mouth than he'd planned, sending a scorching stream down his throat. "These just came," Marcy said soberly. "One is for Agent Eppes, the other for Agent Shire."

They took them without comment, and as Marcy left, Don looked at Shire. "Go ahead," he said quietly.

Shire's hands were shaking badly, and everyone looked away while he opened the envelope. His soft, unintelligible exclamation made everyone look back, and they saw him holding a photo, his eyes watering. He cleared his throat, and looked up, holding out the photo. "It's Joanie. He wrote today's date on the back." He ducked his head, and placed his forefinger and thumb on his eyelids, as if trying to hold in the tears with his fingers.

Wright took it, and then laid it on the table. It was on regular printer paper instead of photo paper, and the image was grainy, but still, Charlie felt his heart catch as he looked at it – the woman, in her late thirties, looked thin and bedraggled. It was her eyes, though, that hit him – they were blank, horror-filled, devoid of hope. The eyes of someone gazing out at them from hell. He looked at Don, who was staring at his own envelope white-faced.

He started to open it, paused, and looked up at Colby as if to ask him something, then shook his head, and finished opening the envelope. Two pictures were enclosed, and as Don looked at them Charlie saw disbelief and despair flash in his face. "Oh, damn," he whispered, and held out the pages with an unsteady hand. David took them, looked at them, puzzled, and began to pass them around. Don shook his head and looked down. "Someone who serves you -," he broke off, then looked at them in anguish and continued, his voice shaky. "She works at the Java Jive across the street. I don't even know her full name – Amber something. It wasn't anyone who works with me, or for me – she literally serves me coffee."

He looked at the envelope again, and pulled out a note, reading in a flat tone that Charlie had never heard before. "Agent Eppes – you have failed again. You disappoint me. Because of you, she will die." His words trailed off, and the room was silent.

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Amita checked her watch; then dialed her cell phone. It was nighttime in Delhi, so it would be morning in the States, but before class time, and she couldn't figure out why Charlie wasn't answering. He hadn't answered the night before either, and she'd made it a point to call him early enough. She sighed in frustration. "I can't understand why he won't pick up," she complained to Charu, who was watching her with sharp eyes and a slight smile.

"Because he is sensible," she said, with a satisfied expression. "He is listening to my advice."

Amita stared at her. "What advice? You talked to Charlie?"

"No, I emailed him," she replied as she leaned back against the sofa. "I sent him pictures, showed him how much fun you are having, and asked him not to pressure you."

"Not to pressure me!" Amita looked at her incredulously. "Charlie never pressures me – if anything, he can't commit. What on earth made you think you could say that?"

Charu looked hurt. "It is for your own good. I did it for you. You know you belong here. Did you not have fun today with me, with Ajay?"

Amita sighed. "Charu, yes, but life is not all about fun."

Charu looked shocked. "Why not?"

"I mean, I have responsibilities, a good job, and someone I love. I'm not going to throw all that away."

"Not even if you could get a better job, have more fun, and someone you love more? Someone who _can_ commit? Really Amita, you sell yourself short."

Amita looked at her suspiciously. "What did you send him, exactly?"

Charu shrugged. "It is on the computer."

"I want to see it."

Charu looked at her, petulantly.

Amita's voice lowered dangerously. "I want to see it, Charu."

Charu sighed, flounced off the sofa and across the room to a desk, and opened up her email on the computer. "There!" she exclaimed with a flourish, and stomped off with a highly offended expression.

Amita clicked it open and read the letter, her hand going to her mouth as she read through it. "Charu-," she said with clenched teeth, as she began to open the pictures. Okay, not so bad, not so bad, - uh oh – Ajay had his arm around her in that one, not so good… She opened the last one, and gasped in shock. She'd had no idea that someone had captured their kiss on film, and she stared at the photo, mortified. "Oh, my God," she said, and it came out as half-whisper, half-whimper. "Damn it, Charu!"

She slumped back in the chair, still staring at the screen. Her first reaction had been guilt, and panic – she could very well lose Charlie over this, and she closed her eyes, imagining the pain she must have caused him, feeling it herself. Her eyes opened again of their own accord – the incriminating photo drew them like a magnet, and she writhed inwardly, her cheeks flushing with shame. She closed them again, tightly, trying to shut out the image, put her clenched fists to her forehead, and moaned.

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End Chapter 8

_A/N: Next chapter - the killer reconsiders..._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Brou-ha-ha..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 9**

The meeting had drawn to a close, and the group dispersed to work on various assignments. Charlie had examined the envelopes that the pictures had come in, and was jotting down the drop point for Courier Express at which they'd been mailed. Don and Colby had lingered in the conference room, talking in low voices, and Charlie looked up and interrupted them. "Did we get anything from Courier Express as to who mailed these?"

Colby shook his head. "There's a different name and return address every time – all fake. The first set had no definable fingerprints – just smudges, and Marcy and Don's prints. Some of the later envelopes had fingerprints, but they were all different, and none of them were in the system – we think he has a stash of their envelopes, and might be paying someone – kids maybe, to bring them in and mail them for him. When we questioned the clerks, one remembered a kid coming in with a name and return address written on a piece of paper, but couldn't provide a good description of the kid. LAPD is out in the areas around the Courier Express drop points, trying to see if they can find anyone who had been asked to deliver the envelopes, but it's the needle-in-a-haystack thing – I don't think they'll have a lot of luck." He turned to Don. "Okay – David and I are heading over to the Java Jive – we'll check in as soon as we find anything."

Don looked at Charlie as Colby stepped out of the room. "Both of those were mailed at the same drop point?"

"Yeah. It only gives me one more data point. I'm putting it in, and I'll let this run while I'm in class -," Charlie broke off and looked at his watch in panic. "Boy – I've got to get going." He stood hurriedly to disconnect his laptop, and the movement sent his computer case tumbling to the floor. The file with Amita's pictures that he had hastily stuffed inside slipped out, spilling the contents, and he hurried to scoop them up, but the table was in his way. Don had already stepped forward and had retrieved them, his slight frown of confusion replaced by a dumbfounded look as he spied the picture of Amita, locked in an embrace with someone unknown.

He looked up at Charlie, nonplussed. "Charlie, what is this?"

Charlie pushed forward, head down, and snatched them out of his hand. "Nothing," he mumbled, as he put them back in the file.

Don stared at him, both slightly hurt and a little irked at Charlie's unwillingness to confide in him about something so obviously important. The feelings were compounded by a sudden surge of anger at Amita – she was apparently cheating on his brother, and Charlie was trying to cover it up. He realized too, that Charlie had misled him that morning – Don had thought that his brother's mood was due entirely to the case, and Charlie had been willing to let him think that. His jaw tightened. "That doesn't look like nothing. Where did you get this?"

Charlie sighed impatiently, as he packed up his laptop. "It doesn't matter. I'll talk to her about it when she gets back."

"It doesn't matter?" asked Don incredulously. He felt aggravation at his brother rising, adding to his anger at Amita; a groundswell of dangerous emotion that had its roots in his frustration over the case. "What, are you just going to let her yank you around?"

"I didn't mean it that way," shot back Charlie crossly. "I meant it didn't matter where I got it. I haven't even heard what she has to say about it yet."

Don snorted. "Charlie – I hate to break it to you, but there's not a lot to talk about here."

"I don't need your advice, thanks," snapped Charlie, picking up his case and facing Don, who was blocking the door. "Just butt out, okay?"

Don's temper flared. He lowered his voice, but jabbed a finger at Charlie. "Don't be a doormat, Charlie. Stand up for yourself. And when it comes to this office, don't sneak around behind my back when I tell you not to do something, either. If you don't agree, come and see me about it directly." He swiveled abruptly and made for the doorway, then turned, and looked back at him. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, and sounded sad, and tired. "You know, you disappoint me on both counts. I thought you had a little more backbone than that." Without waiting for a response, he strode out into the bullpen.

Charlie stared at Don's retreating back, his own anger suddenly drenched by hurt, his irritation evaporating at his brother's last comment. '_He didn't mean it,_' he told himself, '_he's upset over this case, and he's mad at Amita. I don't even know why I was arguing – _I'm_ upset with Amita._' He adjusted the strap of his computer case on his shoulder – it suddenly seemed like a heavy burden – and trudged out of the office. In spite of his rationalizations, though, there was a whisper of a thought in his subconscious, reinforced by years of his own feelings of inadequacy when he compared himself to Don. It was a thought so subtle he didn't even recognize it consciously – he just felt the discomfort that it caused. "_no backbone – he thinks you're spineless…"_

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Ryan Morgan watched as the vehicle pulled up in front of the apartment building and an LAPD officer opened the door, with a quick glance around. Morgan's eyes narrowed as Robin Brooks exited, accompanied by a sharp-eyed athletic-looking African American woman – an agent, no doubt. They were taking no chances – not even walking through the parking garage. Instead, they pulled right up to the main entrance. Inside, he knew, they would set up a protection detail. He had to hand it to Eppes – Shire hadn't seen it coming, hadn't known his wife was the goal all along, but Eppes had immediately put protection on his significant other. Of course, Eppes did have the advantage of knowing what had happened in Shire's case, Morgan conceded. Eppes was smart, but Ryan was smarter. In the end, he'd find a way.

In fact, he had high hopes for the dinner the next night. He'd reported that morning for training and sign-up at the hotel; had gotten fitted for the tux that he'd wear as a server, and had gotten his instructions. They'd assigned him to serve drinks – he'd distribute glasses of wine to the crowd. He didn't even need to lobby for the job – his good looks made him a natural – they wanted him out among the guests, instead of back in the kitchen, where they put the less appealing workers. It would allow him mobility, the chance to get close.

That morning at training, while the hotel event manager had been addressing the group, he'd sidled over to a table that the manager had set up as impromptu office, and surreptitiously leafed through the guest list. Under 'Charles Eppes,' he found them – Agent Eppes, his girlfriend, the father, a woman named Mildred Finch, and a man named Lawrence Fleinhardt. He smiled to himself. He still had no idea if he would get an opportunity to take her at the hotel, but the thought that he could wander among them – right up to her and the agent - at will, was tantalizing. Even if he had to wait to take her, it would be an interesting evening, and could possibly yield invaluable information.

He wrenched his thoughts back as the apartment door closed behind the last LAPD officer; Eppes' woman was already inside. Thoughtfully, Morgan turned the key in the ignition, and headed back for the warehouse. It was time to toy with his latest victim, the blonde. Tomorrow, before the dinner, he would cut her.

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Don adjusted his tie in the mirror early Saturday evening, thinking that he'd looked better. His eyes were tired, his face, drawn. Even though it was Saturday, they'd worked all day on the case, following a Friday that had ended up being one of the longer days of his life. The connection between the murder of Cookie Myers and the Seattle Flower Killer finally had been leaked, and the reporters had descended in droves. One of them eventually had found that there was another missing woman, Amber Peterson, and the resulting clamor had the mayor and the Bureau scrambling to set up press releases, both written and televised. It was a zoo, and Don had found it impossible to set foot from the office without being swallowed, amoeba-like, by a crowd of reporters bearing microphones.

It meant he'd spent the bulk of Friday and Saturday working to update the mayor and Wright, proof-reading press statements for errors, and arguing about how much information should be given to the media. In the meantime, his team had gone about their assignments, finding that Amber Peterson's car was at her apartment; that she'd made it to both of her jobs the day before, and to classes that night. Sometime between the end of classes that evening and reporting for work the next morning, Amber had disappeared, most likely from her apartment complex.

He'd stopped in to see Charlie at his office at school Friday afternoon, to see if the extra drop point for the body had helped his brother generate an operating area for the killer. It still wasn't enough data – his program continued to specify half of L.A. Don hadn't stayed long – the atmosphere was decidedly strained, and Charlie disconcertingly quiet.

Don gave an impatient yank to his tie as he remembered their argument, as if he wished it was a noose around someone's neck, only he couldn't say whose – his own, or Charlie's. Frankly, Don was pissed off at himself for his harsh words, pissed off at Charlie for apparently letting Amita walk all over him, pissed off at the press, and above all, pissed off at the killer. Whoever he was, the man seemed to be calling all the shots, jerking them around like puppets. Yank. He scowled at the tie, gave one last impatient tug to his suit, and headed for the door. It was time to pick up Robin, and meet the rest of them at the dinner.

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Alan sighed with satisfaction, and looked around the room. They were seated at a round, damask-covered table, enjoying their salads. Millie was to his left, Charlie on his right, flanked by Larry, and Don and Robin sat across the table. They were six – enough of them that they got a table to themselves, although there was an extra seat. "It's too bad Amita couldn't be here," said Alan, as he sipped from his glass of wine.

Charlie, who had just taken a bite of salad, promptly choked and grabbed for a napkin, wiping watery eyes. Larry patted him absently on the back and chimed in, apparently as ignorant of the situation as Alan was. "Yes, she was extremely upset that she had to miss it."

"I'll bet," muttered Don darkly. His delivery of the comment drew his father's radar, and he covered with a weak smile, as he took a hasty drink of his wine. Charlie shot him a quick reproachful glance, and Don's jaw tightened. Damn, Charlie was good at looking wounded. It guaranteed a wave of guilt, and a resulting surge of frustration. He caught Robin watching him curiously, and he took another sip of wine, avoiding her eyes.

"So, Charlie," Robin said, turning her gaze on him. "Tell me about this award."

"It's just a nomination," demurred Charlie, laying his fork down, grateful for the change of subject. "The Wolf organization gives out international prizes every year for various fields of study, mathematics being one of them."

"It's quite prestigious," Larry chimed in. "There is no Nobel prize for mathematics, although this prize has been likened to that. It's one of the top honors a mathematician can earn. This is certainly the top award given annually. The others are given on a less frequent basis, or for lifetime contributions."

"The actual award hasn't been announced yet," added Charlie. "This dinner is just to recognize the nominees from the United States."

"It's a tremendous honor just to be nominated," said Millie, her eyes twinkling. "I propose a toast, to our resident honoree, Charlie." She raised her wine glass, and the others followed suit.

Charlie and Don's eyes connected, Robin noted; then the two brothers rapidly glanced away. She took a sip of her wine, and smiled at Don.

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Ryan Morgan moved smoothly through the room with his tray of wine glasses, assessing the situation. The agent and his girlfriend had arrived with the female agent and several officers dressed in suits, discreetly standing around the perimeters of the room. They and the crowd would likely make it impossible for Morgan to try anything that evening, but he wasn't ruling it out yet. In truth, however, he was starting to feel a little desperate. Eppes had her locked down tight. It was virtually impossible to get at her in her apartment or her office, and Morgan knew Eppes would keep other opportunities, like this one, to a minimum.

Dinner was over, and the nominees were getting up to make short speeches. Much of the crowd was still sitting, but some stood, especially over by the bar area, as they listened. The bar was a necessity, smirked Morgan, with this crowd; many of the mathematicians were older, studious, and although their speeches seemed quite witty to their peers, the humor was lost on most of the non-mathematicians. A disproportionate number of them had wandered over to the bar, including Agent Eppes and his girlfriend. Morgan wound his way through the crowd, toward their location.

He maneuvered around them, and finally made his way directly in front of them. He felt a thrill as he locked eyes with Eppes. "Would you like some wine?" He offered the tray first to Robin, with a smile.

"Thank you," she replied, selecting a glass of white wine, and he nodded, flashed a dazzling smile, and turned to the agent. "You, sir?"

Sharp dark eyes took him in, but there was no sign of suspicion on the agent's face. He took a glass of red wine, and murmured his thanks, and Morgan nodded again, with a flush of excitement. Here he stood, right in front of them, and they had no idea who he was… He moved around behind them, and paused. They were announcing the agent's brother, and Morgan stood behind them, listening as the young man made his way to the stage.

"So, what's up with you and Charlie?" he heard Robin say, and he stepped over just a bit closer, and offered his wine tray to an older man in a dark jacket.

"Me and Charlie?" the agent repeated, sounding slightly surprised, and then he shrugged. Eppes was discreet - he kept his voice low - and Morgan stepped to the side of the old man, trying to get close enough to hear. "Nothing really. We had a little – argument – yesterday. No big deal."

Robin watched Charlie ascend the steps to the stage, and eyed him speculatively. "You never talk about him much – not even when we dated before – and frankly, you seem less than excited about being here."

The agent looked at her, and Morgan could see a trace of embarrassment on his face. "I don't know – we weren't all that close when we were younger, and as far as the awards stuff goes – well, I've been to a bunch of these things. Charlie's been winning awards his entire life."

She smiled at him. "'You weren't all that close when you were younger?'" she repeated. "Is it different now?"

The agent watched his brother shaking hands with the dignitaries on the stage, and Morgan's eyes narrowed as he watched Eppes' expression soften. "Yeah, actually, I think it is. We've been working together a lot, and we've gotten closer." The agent smiled. "He still knows how to push my buttons – he did yesterday. Of course, I probably overreacted – I tend to be a little protective of him."

"I hadn't noticed," replied Robin dryly. "He's having girl troubles?"

"Yeah, you picked up on that, huh?"

Someone several feet away signaled for wine for the second time, and Morgan reluctantly moved away from the conversation. He served the man, and looked back at the agent with a contemplative gaze. Eppes was standing there with a soft smile, watching as his brother spoke to the audience. Morgan could see the conflicting expressions on the agent's face – the affection, the pride, perhaps a just bit of guilt and resentment. It was a potent mix of emotions, and the agent's words ran through his head. _'we've gotten closer… knows how to push my buttons…I tend to be a little protective…'_

Ryan Morgan's head swiveled; and his eyes locked, deliberately, on the young man on the stage.

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End Chapter 9

_A/N: Now I'm going to do something almost as evil as Ryan Morgan - I'm going to leave you until Sunday the 22nd. I will be gone on vacation with my family, and I won't have access to a computer. I promise an update that Sunday - have a great week!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I'm back - sorry for the wait, all. Happy Birthday, An-Jelly-Ca!_

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 10**

Charlie groaned, ran a hand over his face, and fumbled for his alarm clock. Early Sunday morning sunlight streamed in through the sides of his window blinds, delivering a message that he didn't want to recognize. It had taken him a long time to get to sleep, even as exhausted as he was, and now he wanted to stay there – in sweet oblivion. Asleep, he wouldn't have to think about Don, about Amita, about the horrors of the case.

It was the case that drove him up and onto his feet, however. Don was starting the day off with a group meeting at headquarters, and he was requested to be there. Even if he hadn't been, he would have shown up – Charlie was as frustrated by the lack of progress as the rest of them, more so, by his own failure to narrow the killer's operating area down to anything less than the south half of L.A. Anything south of LAX and as far east as Yorba Linda appeared to be fair game.

As badly as he felt about Amita, as much as that was weighing on his mind, the case was worse. Even if it hadn't involved Don, it would have been supremely disturbing – he had the feeling that they weren't facing merely sickness, but pure evil. The fact that it was directed at Don made it unbearable. He was terrified his brother would be hurt by this – if not physically, then mentally. Charlie wasn't trained to observe other people in the way that FBI agents were, but even he could see the toll that the killer had taken on Agent Shire. The man was barely holding it together, nearly ready to crack. Charlie couldn't bear to think of Don that way – of him being reduced to mental rubble. The sooner they brought this monster in, the better.

Still, it was an effort to move – all of it, the case, the killer, his argument with Don, Amita - had beaten him down to the point that he just wanted to crawl between the covers and pretend it was over. He hadn't felt this bad, this depressed, this anxious, since his mother died. As he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, a vision of Amita, immersed in a kiss with the unknown man rose in his mind, and he pushed it away, fighting down the feeling of panic and despair it engendered.

Downstairs, his father was making coffee and eggs. Charlie felt a little better after a shower and a shave, but it was the coffee that finally woke him out of a stupor. Alan set a plate in front of him and sat down with one himself, fixing Charlie with a probing gaze. His son looked exhausted, beyond his limit. "Charlie, you don't have to go in this morning. In fact, maybe you should take a break from this case. Do they really need you on this one?"

Charlie shook his head, and poked at his eggs with his fork, one elbow on the table and his head in his hand. "Dad, they need all the help they can get on this one. The killer's directing this at - ," he stopped himself, but Alan finished the statement for him.

"Donnie. I know. He finally told me about it, yesterday. I almost canceled my trip, but he convinced me to go. Frankly, though, looking at you, I'm still wondering if I should stay."

Charlie tried to look reassuring. "I'm fine, Dad. There's nothing you can do anyway. I'm going in for the meeting this morning, and then I'll probably come home and just work on my program from here. In fact, I should be home well before you leave for the airport. You never know – the case could break and be all over, and you'll have canceled your trip for nothing."

Alan sighed. "Well, you can start making me feel better by eating your breakfast. And don't forget to eat while I'm gone. I have a couple of meals thawing out in the refrigerator – enough for Donnie too, if he wants to come over."

Charlie obligingly stuffed a forkful of eggs in his mouth, and spoke around them. "Okay – and don't worry about me - I'll be fine."

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They found Amber Peterson at five-thirty a.m. She'd been dumped in a vacant lot off East Alondra Blvd, and had been stumbled over by a homeless drunk on an early morning amble to his napping spot of choice. Actually, dumped was not the word for it – she'd been laid out carefully, just like Cookie and the others before her. The news – and the pictures – set a grisly tone for the meeting that morning.

"I went through the video several times," said Colby, a trace of the experience still on his face. "There's a lot of background noise – sounds like construction equipment. The sheets he hung blocked out the background, but you can see the floor – it looks like unfinished wood. The ceilings are obviously high, so we think it's a warehouse or manufacturing site of some kind. I have some of our folks checking for construction sites on the south side of L.A."

"Okay," replied Don. "Maybe that will help narrow down Charlie's search a little."

Charlie could see the strain in his brother's face, but Don still appeared to be collected – not like Shire. The man looked worse every day, and Charlie couldn't begin to imagine what he was going through. He frowned, trying to concentrate on his program while the others talked. Epiphany suddenly struck him, and he looked up. "I think I've got more data here – I've been putting in all of the Courier Express locations, but we've got two more data points – the drop points for the victims."

Don looked at him, approvingly. "Good – you can plug those in. How long will it take to run?"

Charlie shook his head. "It's not that simple. I can't assume that he used the same rationale to select those sites; in fact, we know he didn't, so I'll have to write a new program and integrate it with the original. That job itself will take a few hours; then it will need run time."

Wright frowned. "You'd better get going on it, then. He's got to be preparing for his next victim."

"Speak of the devil," murmured David, as Marcy appeared at the door. All eyes swung toward her, and the Courier Express envelope she held in her hand.

"Just one," she said softly, and handed Don the envelope. He took it, his dark eyes glittering with something indescribable, and ripped it open. The room was silent as he read, turning pale, and he handed it to Jill Cash, who was standing to his left.

She scanned it, her green eyes narrowed, then read aloud.

_Agent Eppes: _

_Dark head, red breast, this is the bird that you love best._

_Agent Shire:  
When I hold Agent Eppes' bird in my hand, your flower will die._

_It happens today._

"Dark head, red breast," repeated Liz. "That's a robin." Colby and David exchanged glances.

Jill looked up. "He's escalating. In Seattle, it took him four vics to work up to Joan. He's only killed two here before he decided to go for Robin. That's a pretty bold statement – that he'll pull it off today."

Shire's voice was hoarse. "He's going to kill her – he's going to kill Joanie once he has Robin."

"And that's not going to happen," said Don firmly. "Effective immediately, I'm going to put increased manpower in Robin's apartment, and she goes nowhere until we catch this guy."

Charlie was already packing up his computer. "I'm heading home to work on this. I'll let you know as soon as I've got something."

Don nodded absently; he was turning to the team. "Colby, David, Liz, Jill Cash – you're with me at Robin's apartment. Colby, line up a tech and get some equipment over there for a phone trace, in case he tries to contact Robin. Mike – you're welcome to join us, or you can head up coordinating incoming leads here from other groups – your choice."

"I'll stay here," Shire replied, his voice tight. "I can't just sit there and wait – I need to do something."

It had remotely registered with Don that Charlie was saying something, but by the time he turned around, his brother was halfway through the bullpen. He got just a glimpse of the dark head and the tan jacket, before Charlie disappeared around the corner.

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Charu stood on the curb, pouting, as Amita wheeled her suitcase away from the trunk, and pulled it up on the sidewalk in front of the Indira Gandhi International Airport. "I still do not understand why you have to leave early," she said peevishly.

"I wouldn't," retorted Amita, "if you hadn't made a mess of things." Her face was angry, but it softened as she looked at Charu. "I did have a wonderful time. I'll think about what you said, but I can't make a decision like that overnight."

Charu leaned forward and hugged her. "I will miss you. Come back soon."

Amita returned the hug, nodding, but evading Charu's last request. "Good-bye. I'll call when I get back."

An hour later, she was in her first class seat, and accepting a glass of wine from the flight attendant. It was a twenty-two hour flight back to L.A., but even though it was near noon Sunday in Delhi, with the time difference, she would get in to L.A. Sunday night. In the meantime, she would have twenty-two hours to sort out her thoughts, her feelings, before she saw Charlie.

In Delhi, the excitement, her immediate surroundings, and the people around her had pulled her in their direction, but now that she was headed home, all she could think about was Charlie – his endearing smile, his gentleness, his mop of unruly hair. She could feel an almost unbearable anxiety begin to settle inside. She loved him, she realized, really loved him, and there was a chance that their relationship had been irreparably damaged. In spite of what she had told Charu – that she would think about Charu's recommendation that she return to India - she knew her home was in L.A. In fact, Charu's ploy had solidified things in her mind, had made her even more convinced – home was wherever Charlie was.

Home – she couldn't get there fast enough, and she could only hope she had still a home – that he would forgive her. She sighed, her eyes brimming with tears, and took a sip of her wine to try to hide them. It was going to be a long flight.

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"What's going on?" asked Robin, as she watched the group file into her apartment. A tech made directly for her dining room table and began setting up a computer and tracing equipment; and agents began to move through the rooms, familiarizing themselves with the layout of the apartment.

Don took her elbow gently and steered her aside. "We got another letter today. It points directly to you." He handed her a folded copy, and she paled as she read it.

"So what does it mean?"

"It means we increase our presence here until we get the guy," Don said firmly. "My team and I are here for the duration. I have to believe he's going to try something to draw you out – he can't possibly get to you in here. We're setting up a phone trace in case he tries to contact you. I also have LAPD manning other parts of the building. He may try to start a fire or something along those lines, to create a distraction, and if he does, we'll be ready for him. We're locking the place down."

Robin looked at the group taking up residence in her living room. "That's a lot of people."

"It's my team – you know all of them – Liz, David, and Colby. Jill Cash is a profiler from the Seattle office, and we brought along a tech to handle the phone traces. I know it's a lot to deal with, but it's necessary, at least for the time being. Charlie's working on trying to narrow down the perp's operating area – he should have something later today or this evening. Once we have that, we can go on the attack."

"And in the meantime?"

Don looked at her steadily. "We wait."

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End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 11**

He waited. Ryan Morgan was brimming with impatience, but he waited until the time was right.

He'd gone home from the awards dinner the night before with a change of direction, a new plan hatching in his mind. He'd slept on it for a few hours; then rose at around three a.m., and made arrangements to dispose of Amber's body. Once he had completed that, at around four-thirty a.m., he drove back to the warehouse to clean up. There was a bathroom on the first floor with operational plumbing, complete with a shower. It was old and moldy, and the water was cold, but it met his needs. Considering all the blood that he dealt with, a shower was a must. Even apart from that, the ability to cleanse himself and to shave was for him, an essential need – he was fastidiously clean, to the point of obsession, even insisting that his captive, Joanie Shire, shower regularly. The fact that the warehouse had a shower made things much simpler; he could stay there, and not have to pour needed funds into renting an apartment.

Once he had cleaned up and changed, he headed directly for Pasadena. During his three-week surveillance period, he had followed Agent Eppes more than once to his brother's house. He was there by a little before six a.m., parked the white panel van a few houses up, at the curb, and pondered how to word the message.

For the message was all-important. It had to be challenging, but it also needed to be obvious enough that it would engender guilt in the agent – the self-recrimination that would come when he realized that he should have figured it out the first time. Ryan already knew what Eppes was assuming – that Robin Brooks was his ultimate target. In fact, she had been – until last evening. Morgan wanted to capitalize on that misconception.

Oddly enough, it was his intended victim's choice of clothing that sealed his fate – and provided the wording for the message. Dr. Eppes had emerged from his house that morning, hurriedly making for his Prius, jumped in and drove off, but not before Morgan had gotten a good look. The professor had been obliging enough to wear a red T-shirt under his tan blazer. _Dark head, red breast…_

It was brilliant, Morgan exulted. Barely managing to control his excitement, he made the long drive south to the warehouse, to his computer, and printed out the message, tucking it into a Courier Express envelope with gloved hands. He was there only seconds, and off again in a flash, to mail it. He smiled at Joanie Shire on his way out - she would finally meet her end that day, and he wondered if she sensed it. She returned his stare with dull eyes. Not a clue, he decided, she hadn't a clue.

Finding an open Courier Express drop was a bit tougher – it was Sunday and most of the drops were closed. He finally found one downtown that was open round the clock, close to the FBI offices, and paid a shabby-looking man to take the envelope in, making sure the man knew he was watching. He then drove down to the FBI offices and waited in his van, just to be sure that the envelope got there. He watched as it was delivered, and sat there gloating for a moment, imagining the agents reading it inside. Then he drove back to the warehouse and made sure his van was equipped with what he need for his attempt.

He made his way back to the Craftsman that afternoon. The Prius was already back in the driveway, but the father's car was there, and Morgan sat for a good while, ruminating over possible options. He would not act until dark, he decided. There was less chance of being detected. He had just decided to leave and go find a quick dinner when the father emerged, put two suitcases in his trunk, and drove off. Off on a trip, no doubt, and an extended one, apparently, judging from the two bags. A grin crept to Ryan's face. He would have found a way to deal with the old man, but now it was not required – the take would be that much easier. This was kismet – the stars were aligning for him.

He had never considered taking a man before; it added a new, almost unbearable excitement to the hunt. The hours until 8:30 p.m. were nearly impossible to wait through, but he forced himself to be patient, even leaving for a while to go eat. When he returned, the sun had just set, and darkness was settling over the placid neighborhood. He cruised slowly, quietly, down the street, turning off his headlights as he reached the driveway and pulled in. He stepped out into the humid summer night, easing the door shut, and soundlessly made his way toward the front of the house, any hint of noise covered by the soft hiss of the sprinkler. There were sheer draperies in the window, but with the yellow light pouring through them he could make out the images of furniture inside, and if he stood at an angle, he could discern the figure in the red T-shirt, seated at the dining room table. He smiled and moved toward the front door, pulling out his disposable cell phone as he went.

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The call came in at 8:40 p.m. Don and his team were chafing, bordering on irritable – it had been a long day of nothing, and the wait imposed on frayed nerves. Robin had retired to her bedroom for some privacy, and the rest of them lounged around the living room and dining room. They'd done what they could from there, making phone calls, trying to follow up on leads, but they'd reached an impasse hours earlier. Don had called Charlie twice, checking on his progress, only to hear that he needed more time. They'd ordered pizza, sending Colby to get it to eliminate risk – even a pizza deliveryman couldn't be trusted - but that distraction was long over. The few stale pieces that were left lying about were like an embodiment of the case at that point; all the leads cold, or dried up.

Don's cell phone vibrated; and he pulled it out of his pocket, checking the number. The office, he noted. "Eppes."

Mike Shire's voice came over the line, filled with excitement. "Don – I've got him on the line. I recognized the voice. He says he wants to talk to you directly, but he refuses to be put through. Can I give him your cell phone number?"

Don made a gesture to his team, and stood, striding for the tracing equipment on the dining room table. "Yeah. Go ahead."

He disconnected, and handed his cell phone to the tech, who made the connection to the equipment. "That was Shire – he said our man's gonna call me -,"

He broke off as the phone, now connected, vibrated in his hand, and answered. "This is Agent Eppes."

The voice, familiar from the video, floated out of the speaker attached to the equipment. It sounded as though the killer was trying to keep his voice down, and Don frowned, trying to discern background noise. "Agent Eppes, did you get my message?"

"Yeah, I got it." Don's voice was terse. "I don't see you making a lot of progress. Maybe you bit off more than you could chew."

Across the table, Jill Cash caught his eye, giving him a warning look.

"On the contrary, agent, I'm getting ready to make my move. My bird is right here – I can see 'em now, bent over a computer, wearing a red shirt."

Don's head jerked up and he looked instinctively toward Robin's bedroom, then jabbed the mute button. "I thought we had the blinds closed in her room." Liz headed immediately over to check, quietly opening the door.

"Agent Eppes? Are you there?"

Don hit 'unmute.' "I'm here." He glanced up as Liz emerged, followed by Robin, and Don took in the pale blue blouse Robin was wearing, the same one she'd had on earlier - no red shirt. "I think you're guessing – and not doing too well at it." He sounded confident, but inside, he was starting to feel an odd, apprehensive sensation.

He hit mute again, as Liz spoke. "Blinds were closed – she was reading, not on the computer."

Robin looked at him quizzically, but Don held up a hand as laughter emanated from the speaker, and he hit 'unmute' again. "I'm not the one who's guessing, Eppes. Your preconceived notions have blinded you to the obvious. You need to undergo a major paradigm shift."

"Look-," Don began, but the phone disconnected, and the tech shook his head.

"Didn't get it – not enough time," he said, and for a moment, Don and his team just stared at each other, completely baffled.

"Paradigm shift?" muttered Colby.

Jill spoke quietly, an uneasy expression on her face. "A paradigm is a standard set of beliefs, something one takes as the rule. He's telling us we need to change our perception of what the rules are."

"He's after someone else," said David as the revelation dawned on him.

"Or he's trying to throw us," countered Colby. "Distract us, so he can make a move here."

Don's brow furrowed. He could feel panic start to rise in his gut – if he'd been wrong about this; somewhere out there was another victim. "Play that tape back," he directed the technician, his voice sharp.

The tech hit play, and the killer's voice floated into the room. "_On the contrary, agent, I'm getting ready to make my move. My bird is right here – I can see 'em now, bent over a computer, in a red shirt."_

"Wait," said Colby. "Play that again."

They listened carefully as the segment of tape repeated. "You hear that?" demanded Colby. "I can see 'em now – what if it's not 'them' – what if it's 'him?'"

Liz looked stunned, as the revelation occurred to her. "Charlie."

The blood left Don's face, and he felt his heart contract. "It can't be," he protested. "It doesn't fit the killer's M.O." In spite of his words he grabbed for his cell phone, and without disconnecting it from the equipment, he dialed Charlie's cell phone.

"What was he wearing today?" asked David.

"Something tan," Don replied with conviction. "I remember seeing it as he walked out of the office."

Jill had been listening to the conversation, her face pale. "He was wearing a tan jacket, but he had a shirt on underneath - it was red." She spoke almost apologetically, with her eyes on Don, and she saw the flash of denial in his eyes, the desperate refusal to believe.

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Charlie picked up his cell phone as he hit 'save' on the keyboard with a flourish, and leaned back in the dining room chair. "Hello?"

On the other end, Don sagged with relief. "Charlie."

Charlie stood with a smile, his eyes on his laptop screen. "Hey, Don," he said, his voice filled with excitement, "I'm glad you called. I was just going to call you. I think I've narrowed down his operating area -,"

"That's good, Buddy," replied Don, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. "Did Dad leave for the airport yet? Is anyone there with you?"

Charlie paced a little as he talked, animatedly. "Yeah, he left hours ago. Listen, I not only programmed the two drop points for the victims, I also called the office and got the construction site analysis they'd done -,"

"Charlie, do me a favor, okay? Lock the doors."

Charlie shook his head with an amused grin, and headed toward the kitchen. As he pushed through the kitchen door, he was talking, his own voice drowning out the sound of the front door shutting behind him with a soft click. "Okay, 'Dad.' Anyway, it wasn't easy to formulate the interaction, but the bottom line was, the other two programs truncated the available area, and I think I know where he is."

"Charlie – Buddy – that's really good." Don forced himself to sound calm. "Can you tell me what you're wearing?"

Charlie had just turned the lock on the kitchen door, and he stopped in his tracks and shook his head in bewilderment. "What?"

"Just humor me, Charlie."

"A red T-shirt," said Charlie, with a smile that said he thought his brother had gone off his rocker. "Why?"

His voice emanated from the speakers, and Don exchanged a look with his team, filled with barely controlled fear. He put a hand over the phone, and spoke quietly. "David, get a call into Pasadena PD. Have them get a unit there as fast as they can." When he spoke into the cell phone again, his voice was hoarse with tension. "Charlie, you know, I changed my mind. Forget about the doors, I want you to just get out of the house – go out the front and go to the nearest neighbor, and just stay there until I come. Go now."

Charlie was moving again, heading back for the kitchen door, on his way to the dining room. "Why?" he asked again, frowning, as he reached a hand out to push through it. "What's going on?" The door swung open at his touch, and he followed his hand through, head down. He was completely unprepared for the figure who charged him from his right, and as he stumbled sideways, the cell phone jerked from his hand, arcing through the air. The figure was pushing, ramming him, and forced him against the dining room wall with a strong forearm against his throat, choking him.

The shock was complete, overwhelming, and drove out any coherent thought. Charlie grabbed desperately at the arm at his throat, his eyes taking in the stranger in front of him. He noticed, disjointedly, that the man looked clean cut, and would have been good-looking if it hadn't been for the twisted smile, the sick excitement in the blue eyes. The pressure against Charlie's throat was increasing, and he scrabbled, clawing at the arm, trying to gain purchase, barely noticing the sting in his shoulder until the syringe was withdrawn.

The pressure eased against his neck as the stranger stepped back, and Charlie leaned against the wall, his hand to his throat, staring in shock as the man produced a compact pistol. The stranger trained it at him with a smile, then reached down, with his eyes still on Charlie, and picked up the cell phone on the floor. He examined it, and hit the speaker button. "Yes, Agent Eppes. You're too late, again." He handed the phone to Charlie. "Talk to your brother."

Charlie felt a wave of terror wash through him as the realization of the man's identity finally sank in, and his legs felt suddenly wobbly. He took the phone with a trembling hand, his eyes riveted on the man in front of him, who simply stood holding the pistol, smiling. The phone seemed oddly heavy, and Charlie held it in front of him. "Don?"

On the other end, Don was gripping one of dining room chairs with white knuckles. The man was apparently playing with them – it was the only reason he could fathom why the killer would allow Charlie to speak to him, but he was going to take advantage of it. His voice shook as he spoke, unaware that the phone on the other end was on speaker. "Charlie – listen to me – you need to fight him – stall for time."

Charlie could feel a strange floating sensation, a numbness spreading through his limbs, and he leaned heavily against the wall, his heart pounding. "He has a gun."

"He's not going to shoot you, Charlie – he wants you alive. We've got Pasadena PD on the way – just fight him – try to get away from him."

Charlie's head was beginning to spin, the blue eyes in front of him at the center of the vortex, mocking him. He dropped the phone and pushed away from the wall, staggering into the kitchen door, which gave, swinging open as he fell through it, landing hard on the floor. He was losing function of his limbs, losing lucid thought – he had but one conviction now, to get away. He tried to regain his feet, but he had no strength, and he collapsed, half crawling, half dragging himself toward the back door.

Ryan Morgan picked up the phone as he watched Charlie's flagging efforts with a smile. "What a pitiful sight – he's crawling. At least he's going the right direction. Thanks for the tip on the Pasadena PD – we'll be leaving now. How does it feel, Eppes? You're completely incompetent – how could you give me your own _brother_?"

Don's phone went dead, and for a moment, everyone in the room was frozen, their eyes on Don's horror-stricken face. He turned suddenly, unsteadily, toward Robin. "I have to go," he rasped, agony on his face. "We have to go." He collected himself with an effort. "Liz, stay here with her – get some more of the LAPD officers up here, just in case."

He looked at Robin, and she felt a sharp pang of sympathetic fear at the expression in his eyes. "I'm okay – get going," she said firmly, and watched with a heavy heart as he headed for the door, wrenched it open, and disappeared, with Colby and David behind him.

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End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews all..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 12**

Ryan Morgan surveyed the figure on the floor. Eppes had stopped crawling and was now just laying there, eyes half-open, jaw slack, one arm twitching feebly. He stooped and pulled the professor over his shoulder, grunting slightly as he adjusted the load, but moving easily. The young man was slight – some of Morgan's female victims had weighed more than he did. He stepped to the back door and flipped open the dead bolt, carried his burden out into the night, and dumped him unceremoniously into the back of the van.

He stopped for a moment to listen – it was still quiet; he heard no sirens. He might not, he knew; they might approach without them on, and he needed to hurry. Still, he had heard Dr. Eppes on the phone, talking about the analysis he had done, and he knew he had to get his computer.

Seconds later, he was back in the van with the laptop and the papers that had been sitting next to it, and pulling down the dark street. At the corner, he turned his headlights back on and turned left. He made his way out of the residential area, zigzagging, taking back streets, and at one point he looked to his left, to see two Pasadena police cars three blocks away, flashing through an intersection with their lights on, heading the opposite direction. He smiled to himself.

Four miles down the road, he pulled over next to a golf course. The water hazard on the fourteenth hole was visible from the road; a dark expanse of water about sixty yards in diameter, rippling softly in the summer night. He walked to the edge of it and heaved the laptop as far as he could; listening to it splash. Then he climbed back in the van and drove off into the night, riding on a wave of nearly intolerable anticipation.

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Amita undid her seatbelt impatiently, before the plane even reached the gate. In spite of the length of the flight and her fatigue, she was wide-awake, anxious to see Charlie. She knew her presence would take him by surprise, and she also knew she might not be welcome, but she felt an overwhelming need to see him as soon as possible. It was only a little after nine – with luck, she could get her bags and be at his house by ten. Not too late for Charlie – he was always up late.

For once, the baggage system worked like clockwork; her bags were on the carousel before she even got to it, and moments later, she was outside, flagging a taxi. She knew she should stop at her apartment and pick up her car, but instead, impulsively, she directed the cab to Charlie's house. She had the inexplicable feeling that she needed to get there quickly, and the urgency overcame any rational thought. She'd worry about how to get home later.

She saw the flashing lights as soon as the cab turned down Charlie's street. Trepidation quickly transformed to gut-twisting fear, as she realized that the three patrol cars and other official-looking vehicles were actually pulled up in front of the Craftsman. She shoved money at the cabbie with a shaking hand, yanking at the door before it quite came to a stop, and was partway across the lawn before she heard his voice. "Hey, lady – your luggage!"

"Leave it on the lawn!" she yelled back, and she ran toward the front door, which was standing open.

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"You can't come in here, miss, it's a crime scene."

Don was standing in the middle of Charlie's living room, his mind numb, staring at the dining room table, as if he somehow expected Charlie to materialize in one of the chairs. At the patrolman's words he turned his head, and saw Amita in the doorway, her frightened eyes fixed on him. "Don?" she quavered.

He looked at her, his face forbidding, unreadable, and they locked eyes. He had no desire to speak to her - she'd let Charlie down, he thought, but he took a breath, trying to control his anger. He could hardly judge her – he had let him down, too – in a much worse way. "Let her in," he said brusquely, and the officer stepped aside.

Her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she licked parted lips nervously as she stepped forward. Colby was coming down the stairs, and she shot him a glance; then looked back at Don. "Where's Charlie? What happened?"

Don's jaw worked and he looked away. It was too hard – too difficult to get the words out. Colby shot him a concerned glance, and looked at Amita. "He was kidnapped, about an hour ago," he said softly. "We were working a case – the perp targeted him."

Her eyes darted back and forth between them, and as Don turned back to her, he saw that she was unconsciously wringing her hands. He stared at her coldly. "Did you talk to him today?" His words came out harshly, vibrating with an undercurrent of dislike and mistrust.

"No – I just got in from Delhi – I was flying since yesterday. I didn't even know he was working on a case."

Don's lips tightened. "Too busy with other things, I imagine." _Too busy cheating on my brother._

She stared at him, nodding, taken aback by the anger in his face. "I – we – it's been hard to talk, with the time difference." _Not to mention the fact that he wouldn't pick up the phone. _She swallowed, and looked at them pleadingly. "What does the kidnapper want? Will he let him go if he gets it?"

They said nothing, but the look in their eyes struck terror in her heart. "What's going on?"

"You'd better get out of here," Don said abruptly. "I'm sure you're tired." _All the extracurricular activity with your boyfriend was probably exhausting._ "We'll call you if we get an update."

She stared at him; then turned slowly around, as if in a daze. Colby stepped quietly over to Don, and murmured in his ear, and Don looked at him; then commanded, "Wait!"

He eyed her, hating to ask her for help, and it showed in the grudging tone of his voice. "Charlie was working on a program for us, which had pinpointed the kidnapper's base of operations. The kidnapper took his computer – we need someone to re-run Charlie's analysis. Can you do that?"

She nodded, and managed to find her voice. "Yes."

Don jerked his head at Colby. "Take her downtown, and get her the info." _Get her out of my sight. _He turned away, ignoring her defeated, bewildered stare, and kept his back turned as Colby guided her out the door.

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Charlie's head rolled, and his eyes flickered open. He shut them again, wincing as he tried to lift his head – his neck was unbearably stiff, and the room whirled and dipped, nauseatingly. He felt an odd feeling of weightlessness, such as one felt on a rollercoaster, just as it came over a rise. He opened his eyes again, and focused on his legs. He was seated, he realized, and as his eyes moved, he took in the cords across his chest, and it came to him that they were holding him to the chair. He stared at the cords, and they shifted and swam like snakes against the fabric of his red T-shirt. He slowly lifted his head again, trying to breathe against the nausea. This time it was a bit better; the room stayed right side up, and he blinked groggily, trying to remember what had happened, where he was. The place somehow looked familiar, although he could swear he'd never been there before.

He heard a soft sound to his right, and he turned his head, carefully. There was a woman sitting on a chair next to him; her hands were bound in front of her, but she was not tied to the chair, as he was. Instead she sat, there, slumped, with tears running down her face; the picture of defeat, of hopelessness. She must have caught his movement out of the corner of her eye, and she turned to stare at him. As he looked at her face, recognition began to dawn. He knew her – he'd seen her picture…

Sudden terror hit him like a sledgehammer in the chest, as the recollection of what had happened reasserted itself. He'd been attacked – he was here – with the kidnapper, and that was Joanie Shire. He stared at her, hardly able to breathe; then turned his head, taking in the room, his lips parted; his eyes wide with shock. He could see a video camera in front of them, and turned his head around to find sheets strung up behind them. A light had been trained on them, he squinted, trying to look past it, but he could see no sign of the man who had brought them here. He looked back at Joanie. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

It was a stupid question – she was covered with bruises and looked emaciated, and she lowered her face and tried to wipe at her tears with her bound hands. He tried again. "Your husband's been looking for you – with my brother. They'll find us." His voice sounded rusty, unsure, but he tried to look confident.

She raised her head and regarded him as if he were a child, and shook her head, her eyes filled with terror, and a numb acceptance. "It's too late," she whispered. "He told me. I'm next." She looked at Charlie, and he stared into eyes that were already dead, disconnected from a broken mind that had endured too much; that had cracked under the weight of the horror. "I'm next." Her voice broke, and she bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"You can't think that way – you don't know that," protested Charlie, but even as he spoke, he remembered the killer's message for Shire. '_When I hold Agent Eppes' bird in my hand, your flower will die.' _His heart contracted at the thought – his presence might be the catalyst for her death. He looked around the room, trying to assess the situation, desperately wriggling bound hands behind him, straining against the cords. They had to get out of here, they had to…

"You're awake, I see. Good."

Charlie's head whipped toward the camera, at the dark figure stepping from behind the light. Their captor had donned his black clothing again, the gloves, the ski mask, and Charlie stared at him, his heart thumping. He stole a glance at Joanie. She had lifted her head to look also, but her shoulders were sagging, her face wet with tears, and she was shaking uncontrollably. She was completely demoralized, he realized, her soul crushed, beaten down by weeks of mistreatment, by the horrors she had witnessed. The killer had broken her, and now she waited in helpless terror for her fate.

Ryan Morgan stepped back behind the camera and zoomed in, filling the frame with his captives' figures. He moved forward; then turned, pacing backward for a few steps, until he knew he was centered in the picture in front of them, and then hit a button on a remote, turning the camera on. He spoke into it, with a sweeping gesture at the two behind him. "Agents Shire and Eppes, it is time for the handoff, the transition.

He turned and walked behind Joanie's chair, and placed his hands on her thin shoulders, speaking over her head to the camera. "Agent Shire, you had your opportunities. Four victims in Seattle, the abduction of dear Joanie, here, and two more victims in L.A. You can't say I didn't give you your chances – and your wife has paid for your ineptness. During the last three weeks, she has been beaten, starved, and raped, and now, because of your total lack of competency, she will pay the ultimate price. She will go to her death knowing you failed her."

He lifted his hands from her shoulders, and stepped behind Charlie, who twisted in his chair at Ryan's touch. "Agent Eppes." He laughed; a low throaty sound. "What can I say? Of course, you did have less opportunity to stop me – only two victims here in L.A., but you had the advantage of knowing what I did in Seattle. Still, you failed to guard the one closest to you. You let me take him." He wrapped a gloved hand in Charlie's curls, and pulled his head back, then ran the back of a finger down his cheek to his jaw, and traced a line down the side of his neck, in a suggestive caress. The intimate gesture made Charlie's skin crawl, and he closed his eyes, trying vainly to pull his face away.

Ryan smiled under his mask, knowing that the action would very likely tip Agent Eppes over the edge. It had generated a look of revulsion on the professor's face; the young man turned his head away as soon as it was released, and stayed that way, his eyes closed, his breathing made labored by fear and loathing. "Your brother, Agent Eppes, is about to embark on an odyssey, the same one Joanie has made. I will take him to the next location, and do with him what I please, and when I have my next target, he will die, just the way the others did. They will both die, agents, knowing that you let it happen, that you didn't care enough to stop it."

He lifted the remote and stopped the camera, and then stepped around Joanie's chair to face her. He pulled off his ski mask, revealing a face alight with excitement. "Come, my dear Joanie, it is time."

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face, and shook her head. "No," she pleaded. "No."

Charlie stared at him in horror. "You can't do this." Morgan ignored him, and grabbed Joanie's arms, yanking her roughly to her feet, and she pulled back, trying to fight him. He grabbed her bound wrists and jerked her forward, dragging her as she lost her footing.

"You can't do this!" Charlie yelled after him.

He twisted furiously in the chair as Morgan tied a rope through Joanie's hands, and pulled on it, lifting her dangling, just inches off the floor. It was a replay of the horrible video, only this time it was right there, in front of him, and Charlie gasped as he writhed against his bonds, shaking with the pure horror of it all. "Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop it – please stop!"

As her screams began and joined his, he closed his eyes, sobbing with frustration. And like the screams, her sobs combined with his own, the sound of their cries rising in the night, mingling together until he no longer knew which were hers, and which were his.

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End Chapter 12

_A/N: Sigh. I know. I liked her too._


	13. Chapter 13

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 13**

Liz stepped into the conference room and surveyed the exhausted figure in front of her. It was Monday morning, a few minutes before six a.m., and Don was slumped in a chair, a cup of coffee next to him on the table, one elbow resting next to it. "Did your dad get a flight back?"

Don glanced at her and looked away. "He's still working on it."

He offered nothing more, just ran a finger idly over the rim of his cup, and she watched him for a moment. "We need to send Amita home for a few hours," she said. "Larry came in – she showed him what she's done so far, and he's going to take a stab at one of the programs, and load the data points."

"Fine." Don didn't look up; he kept his eyes on his cup. "I didn't expect her to finish what she started." His words were cold, dripping with sarcasm.

Liz' face contracted in bewilderment. "She's been up for forty hours, Don – she's not thinking straight. She didn't want to go home - we're making her. She's going to catch a few hours of sleep and come right back." She frowned at him. "What's with you, anyway?"

Don sighed and turned to look at her. He was silent for a moment, then spoke, his voice tinged with bitterness. "She's cheating on him."

Liz stared at him in surprise. "How do you know that?"

"Let's just say, we have hard evidence." Don's voice was grim.

"We? Charlie knows?"

"Yeah." He fell silent, and Liz processed that for a moment; then shook her head.

"Look, you can't make snap judgments – you don't know what's behind it all. It sure seems like her heart's in the right place to me – she's devastated by this. Trust me; she's pushing herself as hard as she can." She paused. "You ought to go home too, after the meeting. I got some winks last night at Robin's place. I can hold things down here."

Don's gaze traveled over her shoulder, watching as the team started to file toward the conference room for the meeting, which he'd scheduled for six. "I'm fine. You can help me out, and I'll send David and Colby home first."

She nodded doubtfully, and then turned for the break room. "I'm going grab a coffee."

Beyond Liz, Don could see Amita threading her way through the bullpen toward the conference room, and fought down a surge of anger. It didn't help to know that his ire was directed at least in part at himself. He'd been blind – he should have known better – he should have put protection on Charlie. But damn it, the killer had cheated. Even apart from the fact that he'd targeted only women up this point, he'd made it clear he was after the people to which the lead agents were closest. _'the bird that you love best…'_ Who would ever have thought of Charlie in that regard? Not himself, apparently. It had never entered his mind, until now. He still wasn't sure – his feelings for Charlie were such a twisted mixture of love, resentment, protectiveness and guilt, he wasn't certain how he really felt, until the unthinkable happened. Now, however, he had the disturbing suspicion that the man was right. A serial killer had seen through their relationship, had known somehow, how deeply he felt about Charlie, when Don hadn't himself. What in the hell did that say about him?

He watched, silently, as the group filed in. Mike Shire was barely functioning, a zombie in a rumpled shirt. He sat at the end of the table, and Jill Cash sank into a chair next to him, protectively. She looked worn, and worry filled her normally sharp green eyes. Colby and David, too, appeared exhausted. The killer was beating them all into the ground. He had them where he wanted them.

Wright came in; his was a continued presence. He'd allowed Don and Shire to stay on the case because of their role as the killer's contacts, but he insisted on being involved in at least one daily update. Don was sure it was so he could assess how his SACs were functioning. Wright's eyes roved over Shire, and Don knew what he was thinking – he needed to pull the man off the case. He knew too, that he would help Shire fight that decision, if Wright decided to make it. He understood firsthand how badly Shire needed to be part of this, no matter how painful it was. Not to mention the fact that, if Shire was pulled off, Don might be next. And Don was _not_ going to be taken off this case. No way.

Amita and Larry shuffled in last, uncertainly. The news of Charlie's abduction and what they'd subsequently learned about the case, had hit them both hard. Amita in particular looked ready to collapse, but somehow she pulled herself together, as Don said, "We'll get a report from the consultants, and let them go."

Amita cleared her throat. "I've started developing the three programs. I have several hours into them, and have some more to go. Dr. Fleinhardt is assisting me." She stopped, a blank look on her face for a moment, then seemed to gather herself, and continued. "It helped to know that Charlie wrote three different programs – one each for the Courier Express drop points, the victim drop points, and the construction sites, and married them together. Even knowing that, however, it will still take some time to figure out the appropriate algorithms and to run the programs."

Wright looked at her kindly. "I understand that you've been up for nearly two days straight. If you are going to continue to be of assistance you need to go home and get at least four hours sleep. Factoring that in, can you give us an estimated completion time?"

Amita bowed her head for a moment; then raised it. "Probably some time this evening, depending on how quickly I can come up with the algorithms, and how much Dr. Fleinhardt can accomplish in the meantime. I would say eight p.m., give or take two hours." She blinked again; her words were slurred. There was no question she was on her last legs. Don fought down the surge of sympathy that rose inside him. She didn't deserve sympathy, he thought darkly.

His thoughts were interrupted by a clerk at the door, holding a Courier Express envelope. God, he beginning to hate the sight of those things. Don rose and took it from him, and the young man, wide-eyed at the look on his face, beat a hasty retreat, as Don tore the envelope open, without prelude. The room was silent, watching, as he pulled out a disk. He swallowed the sudden surge of bile that rose in his throat, and looked at Larry and Amita. "You two should go."

Larry spoke tentatively. "There is a possibility it could contain something that might be of assistance in our analysis…"

Don's voice was harsh. "No. We'll tell you if there is anything on it pertinent to your program." He looked at them, and his voice softened a little. "These disks – they haven't been something you would want to see." They both paled, and he looked at Liz. "Do we have someone who can drive Dr. Ramanujan home?"

Amita answered the question. "There's a tech waiting for me." She sent Don one last look, as if trying to read him, and filed out behind Larry.

Don handed the disk to Colby, who was closest to the computer, trying not to acknowledge that his hand was beginning to shake. He would not turn into Mike Shire – he wasn't going to let this bastard get to him. He needed to stay cool, objective…Colby started the disk, and Don sank into a chair on legs that seemed suddenly wobbly.

The disk started, and three images appeared on the screen. Don unconsciously gripped the arm of his chair as he spied Charlie, seated in the background with Joanie Shire.

He shot a glance at Mike Shire, as the agent whispered, "Joanie." Mike's face was a study in pain, his agonized gaze only on his wife. Don jerked his attention back to the screen. The killer was lecturing them, taunting them, and his smug voice was bringing Don's blood rapidly to a boil. As the killer moved behind Charlie, Don tensed in his seat like a coiled spring, as the cold, smooth voice floated into the room.

"_Agent Eppes. What can I say? Of course, you did have less opportunity to stop me – only two victims here in L.A., but you had the advantage of knowing what I did in Seattle. Still, you failed to guard the one closest to you. You let me take him."_

His gut contracted as the killer seized Charlie by the hair, and as he ran his finger down the side of Charlie's face, Don exploded, leaping to his feet. _'Get your hands off him, you sick son of a bitch!' _he raged, internally. Or at least he thought it was internally, as he came to his senses and became conscious the others were staring at him. Did he say that out loud?

He realized belatedly that he was standing, trembling with anger, as Colby put a restraining hand on his arm. Don glanced quickly at Wright, who was watching him with narrowed eyes, and with a huge effort, collected himself, and sank back down into his chair. He forced himself to remain immobile for the rest of the man's speech, but he was sure he wasn't successful at containing his expressions; the others were covertly watching him with troubled faces - except for Shire – he had put his face in his hands. The fear and anger were scrambling Don's mind to such a degree that he couldn't even comprehend the rest of it rationally; the phrases floated through his consciousness.

"…_about to embark on an odyssey… I will take him to the next location, and do with him what I please … he will die, just the way the others did. They will both die, agents, knowing that you let it happen, that you didn't care enough to stop it."_

Each statement ratcheted up the turmoil in his mind, and he fought for control, to remain detached. Of course, that was damn near impossible at the sight of his little brother bound to a chair, his face averted, eyes closed. Don had no doubt that image would be seared in his brain for the rest of his existence. Colby had started the tape again, and he realized the others, except for Mike, were looking at it, discussing what they could or couldn't see or hear in the background. Don pretended to look as though he was following the conversation for Wright's sake, but it was hard to concentrate; his eyes were glued to Charlie. He was so focused, that when his cell phone vibrated, he nearly jumped out of his chair for the second time.

He pulled it out, fumbling a bit, and held up a hand as he looked at the unfamiliar number. David was already handing him the connection for the speakers and the trace equipment, and Liz was on her way out of the room, going for a tech, as Don answered. He stood slowly as he did, for some reason feeling he had to be on his feet. "Eppes."

David hit a button, starting the trace, as the tech hurried through the door. Although it was the same voice as the one they'd just heard on the disk, hearing it live made it sound somehow more menacing, more evil. "I am assuming you have viewed the disk by now."

"Yeah," replied Don shortly, anger reverberating in his voice. "We got it."

Across the table, Jill Cash was motioning at him wildly, and Don hit mute. "You can't let him know he's getting to you," she said, urgently. "That's part of the appeal for him. In fact, if you can convince him he grabbed the wrong person somehow – that he didn't pick the one closest to you, or someone you even cared about, we might make him change his plans."

Wright nodded. "It could buy us some time."

The killer was speaking again, and Don took the phone off mute, trying to sound disinterested. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

On the other end, Ryan Morgan scowled in annoyance, and shot a glance at his captive. The phone was on speaker, and the professor's head was up; he was listening. "I _said_, what did you think?"

Don's eyes met Jill's as he spoke, his voice cool. "I think you screwed up."

Morgan snorted. "_I _screwed up," he repeated. "And how did you reach that conclusion?"

"You picked the wrong person. You were supposed to go for someone close to me." Across the table, Jill nodded her approval.

"Your brother _is_ close to you," Morgan replied confidently. "You can't tell me he's not – in fact he means more to you than anyone else."

"You're wrong," Don responded in a flat tone. "I don't even like him. We work together out of necessity. You screwed up."

Morgan shot a look at the professor. The young man's face had gone blank, stunned by the words coming out through the phone's speaker. Morgan watched as Charlie lowered his head, and his lip curled. "I'll call you right back."

He disconnected, walked across the floor of the warehouse to a smaller room, and closed the door. He knew exactly what Eppes was trying to do, and if he hadn't seen and heard the agent talk about his brother at the awards banquet, he might have bought it. He knew better, though, and he also knew that this was an opportunity not to be missed. He fully intended to let the professor think what he had just heard was the truth; he didn't want to dilute the impact of the words by arguing the point with the agent in front of him. It was one more way to torture his victim, and the agent had just handed it to him, without asking.

On the other end of the line, the tech shook his head. "I couldn't get it."

Don's phone vibrated. "Here he is – try again." He connected. "Eppes."

"I'm sorry," Ryan said smoothly, "I had to move to another room."

"And where would that be?"

"Funny, agent. Now, where were we?"

"I believe we were talking about how you screwed up."

Morgan smirked. "I think you have the subject of that phrase wrong. You need to insert the word 'I' instead of 'you.' You see, agent, there is no doubt in my mind what your brother means to you. Unfortunately, there is now a doubt in his mind. I moved to another room to carry on our conversation privately – I'm afraid he heard you."

Don froze, and stared blankly at Jill, who took in a breath.

Morgan's face twisted in a cruel smile. "I decided that was a nice thought to leave him with, as we begin our travels. Don't worry; I realize you're a little dense, and I'll help you along. If the local feds don't make the connection when we resurface again in our new location, I'll be sure to contact you. Until then." The line went dead, but Don didn't even bother to disconnect his end. His face still white with shock, he set the phone quietly down on the table, and walked out of the room.

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End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Pant, pant - click, click, click... that's the sound of me trying to keep up..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 14**

Charlie stared numbly at his captor, who was going about the business of packing. His body ached from his hours of confinement, strapped motionless to the wooden chair, with his hands bound behind him. Even worse than that, though, was the ache in his soul, the crushing despair. His mind was still reeling from the shock of finding himself in this position, from his witness of Joanie's horrible end. Added to that were the feelings of sadness and betrayal at Amita's apparent infidelity. His brother's flat refusal to acknowledge their relationship, however, was the final thrust of the sword. When he'd realized that Morgan had Don on the line, Charlie had been about to call out until he'd heard that exchange, and it had literally sucked the air out of him. Even though he told himself, desperately, that Don hadn't meant it – that he was playing some kind of game with the killer; he couldn't squelch the doubt, the suspicion that the people he cared about most apparently didn't quite feel the same way about him. On top of all that, there was just one more minor issue - he was facing torture and death at the hands of a lunatic, who so far, no one had been able to stop.

He shifted uncomfortably. The summer afternoon sun had warmed the warehouse, and his T-shirt and jeans were sticking to his skin. The air was thick with the smell of blood. Joanie had finally ceased her weak moaning sometime midday, and although Charlie refused to look to his left where she lay strapped to a board, he knew she must be dead. The smell and the buzz of flies made his stomach turn, and he closed his eyes for a moment. That only seemed to make it worse, and so he opened them again, bleakly watching his captor.

Jill Cash had been right when she guessed that the man might be good-looking. In fact, he looked like a model, with chiseled features, flawless skin and teeth, and bright blue eyes beneath a thatch of light brown hair. In fact, for some reason he looked familiar, but Charlie couldn't say from where. His smile could be engaging, Charlie was sure, when he wanted it to be. He imagined the man was quite capable of submerging the cruelty in those eyes, of turning on the charm. Muscles rippled in the killer's arms as he folded sheets – he looked powerful, and would not be easy to overcome even if Charlie got the opportunity.

Not that an opportunity would present itself. The man seemed to be careful to maintain control over his victims. Charlie watched as he began unscrewing metal objects from the floor. They were tie-offs, like the sort used on boats for attaching ropes, and the killer had used them to tie his victims down on the floor when he tortured or raped them. Charlie looked away, and shuddered. At least, if the man was taking them up, he obviously wasn't planning to use them for Charlie soon.

He looked back to find the man watching him, and he felt an icy sensation pass through his body. His heart began to pound as the killer put down the screwdriver, stood lazily with a smile, and strolled toward him.

--

Ryan Morgan squatted in front his captive and smiled up into his face, studying him. His eyes roved over him, taking in the light sheen of sweat on his skin, the tension in his body, the mixture of emotions in the dark eyes – wariness, fear, and a bit of defiance. He took his time with his perusal, letting his gaze wander over the dark curly hair, the slight body. He knew he was making the professor extremely uncomfortable, and he reveled in the fact.

He finally spoke, smiling, his voice deceptively gentle. "Were you watching me, Charlie?" It was a question, but he gave it the inflection of a statement, and used his victim's first name purposely.

Charlie blinked in surprise at the question, and took a shaky breath. "No."

Morgan's face hardened, and he rose to his feet. "You're lying. You were watching me. You're trying to tempt me."

Charlie shook his head, vehemently. "No – no, I wasn't." He dropped his eyes, trying to control his breathing – panic was making it rough, uneven. "I won't do it again."

"So you admit it!" exclaimed Morgan, his voice rising, his face twisted in anger.

"No!" insisted Charlie, looking back up at him fearfully. "I don't – I didn't -,"

Morgan stood over him, hands clenching and un-clenching, then suddenly lashed out with a vicious backhand. It connected with the side of Charlie's face, and his head whipped around with the force of the blow. He tasted blood, and the room reeled. He fought off the dizziness and righted himself, and sat with his head down, trying not to tremble, keeping his eyes on the floor. His mouth was filling with blood, but he was afraid to spit – afraid of provoking the man in front of him. His cheekbone was throbbing, and he could feel a cut on the inside of his cheek, but he was barely aware of them; terror took center-stage.

Morgan stood, watching him, chest heaving in anger. "Don't make me angry, or I will have to cut you sooner than I want to, understand?"

Charlie nodded; his eyes still on the floor, unable to speak around the mouthful of blood.

"I didn't hear you."

Charlie turned his head and spat blood on the floor, cringing slightly as if expecting another blow. "Yes. I understand."

He sat motionless, head down, until he saw Morgan's feet cross the floor and stop back at his work area. He stayed that way until he heard the killer pick up the screwdriver again, and closed his eyes with a shudder.

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Megan Reeves emerged from the elevator doors and strode across the bullpen. She headed for the conference room, but altered her path as she caught sight of two familiar heads bent over a computer monitor. Larry and Amita looked up as she pulled up next to them, slightly breathless, and Larry immediately rose to his feet. "This is unexpected," he exclaimed. "I thought you weren't coming back until next week."

"After what you told me this morning, I was hardly going to stay there," she chided him gently. "I came back to see what I could do."

He looked at the clock on the wall and his eyebrows rose. "Four-thirty, and it must have been near eleven a.m. your time when I called you. Alan has been trying since last night to get a flight back from Chicago – I'm surprised you were successful."

Her mouth quirked. "Alan didn't have the option of volunteering as an air marshal. If worst came to worst, I was going to bump someone." She looked at Amita with concern. The other woman looked exhausted, bedraggled. "How is it going?"

"Okay." Her voice was quiet, and the tone contradicted her response. "We've nearly finished the programming. Once we're done we'll need to run it – I'm projecting we'll have results between seven and eight tonight."

Megan gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. "I'm heading into the conference room." She looked at Larry, her eyes filled with sympathy and concern. "I'll talk to you later."

She made her way to the room and stepped inside the door. Don's head came up as she entered, and relief flooded his face. He looked stressed – they all did, especially the man on the far end, who she didn't recognize. "I came back early to see if I could help," she said.

Don had risen to his feet. "Thanks," he said quietly. "We can use all the help we can get on this. Megan Reeves, this is Agent Mike Shire, SAC of the Seattle office, and Agent Jill Cash, profiler." She moved forward and shook their hands, and nodded at Liz, Colby, and David.

"I thought Wright was in on this."

"He is," said Don. "He's been in and out. He'll be back this evening at around seven; we're meeting again as soon as the program is done." He ran a weary hand over his face.

Megan nodded. "Okay. Larry gave me the main points, but no details. Would it be too much trouble to catch me up?"

An hour later, she was almost wishing she hadn't asked that question. They'd just finished watching the most recent video, and Don had recounted his last conversation with the killer. She could see the strain on his face, hear it in his voice. He looked beyond exhausted, and most definitely shaken. Probably how Mike Shire had looked at one time, she thought. Shire was well beyond that point now – he seemed ready to crack, and she wondered why Wright had left him on the case.

She looked at Jill; out of respect for the other profiler, she wanted to get her opinion. "What's your assessment?"

Jill gave her a slight nod, an acknowledgment of appreciation at Megan's recognition. "We think he's a Caucasian male, probably early to mid-thirties, good-looking. He has medical background, probably surgical training, perhaps was once a doctor or an intern. Based on the fact that he's able to get close enough to his victims to inject them, we think he can be quite personable when he wants to be. Our office has run a list of doctors or interns of that age who have recently left the medical profession. Unfortunately, it is both extensive and incomplete. We've hit the bigger hospitals and medical universities in the larger cities, but it's tougher to get information out of the smaller towns. That could take weeks, and it will take days to process the names we have already."

"We're certain the only victims have been in Seattle or L.A?" asked Megan.

David spoke up. "We did find one M.O. that looked suspiciously similar – a woman in a small town in Wyoming, and a note was left for the local law enforcement there. The note was left after the fact though, and didn't reference birds or flowers. That murder happened about a month before the first murder in Seattle."

Megan's brow furrowed. "If it was him, it could have been an initial victim. The question is; what triggered the behavior?"

Colby frowned. "You mean, what motivated him to do this?"

"Not necessarily," said Megan slowly. "The motivation might have already been there. The trigger is what prompted him to start acting on those urges." She looked at Cash. "I see a sexual component to this, apart from the rapes. Do you?"

Jill nodded. "Yes. There's no doubt that he derives the majority of his satisfaction from the act of cutting his victims, and from the power trip he gets by manipulating law enforcement. And it appears his need for that gratification is escalating."

Megan shot a glance at Don and Shire. She hated to speak of this in front of them, but they couldn't ignore the discussion just because the SACs were connected to the victims.

"I agree. I think the rapes are just an outlet – a way of assuaging his urges as long as he can, until he gives into the ultimate source of pleasure, cutting his victims. The rapes and the torture serve two purposes – as a means of taking the edge off his desire, and also a way of creating mental trauma for the victim's family members and law enforcement."

Don stared back at her, his eyes dark. "So where does this put a male victim?" He tried, but he couldn't quite keep his voice steady.

Megan looked at him, her face softening with sympathy. "I don't know. As far as the cutting goes, he might not differentiate between male and female when it comes to that – in fact, I would guess not. How he views rape might be another story – he might shy away from that with a man. One point in our favor is the fact that he has never picked a male victim, until now. That might indicate his urgings are primarily heterosexual. It's impossible to tell; we need to remember that rape has less to do with sex than it does with aggression, and hate. "

Don slumped in his chair at her words, then suddenly rose and began pacing impatiently, with repeated glances out of the conference room window toward Amita and Larry. "We need to find the location where he's keeping them. He indicated that he's leaving the area soon – we need to get to him before he does."

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End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 15**

The feet were moving again, coming his direction, but Charlie kept his head down. Judging from the light outside, it was early evening, perhaps six or so. His captor hadn't allowed him up – he'd been in the chair for at least twenty hours, and it was only the lack of water and the fact that he'd spent much of the day sweating that had kept his bladder from bursting. His mouth was parched, and he was dizzy from dehydration. He hadn't asked for anything however; he didn't even dare look at the man after the earlier episode.

The killer had left for a good while that afternoon, not bothering to gag his captive. It wasn't really necessary; the sound of the construction outside would have muffled a small explosion, much less a cry for help, although Charlie tried until he was hoarse. Truthfully, Charlie had expected something to happen by now, someone to come. He'd figured out the location – it was right there on his computer. He'd told Don he'd managed to find it – surely, Don or someone must have looked at his work. He couldn't understand it – what could have delayed them?

The killer kept going, moving past his chair, and Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. The man had made several trips down the stairs behind them, carrying things, no doubt to a vehicle, and every time he passed by, Charlie tensed. Charlie's relief was short-lived, however; this time the feet turned, and came behind the chair. He could feel the hands working at the cords securing him to his seat, releasing them, but leaving his hands bound, and then the man spoke, gruffly. "Stand up."

That was much easier said than done; Charlie could barely get his stiff body to obey. He tottered to his feet, and felt a hand grab the back of his T-shirt and push. "Walk. Head for the far right corner."

Charlie staggered a little, his legs complaining, but managed to keep his feet. His heart had begun pounding again; and he wondered fleetingly how much stress a heart could take in a short period before it simply gave out. The killer marched him forward until they got to a small hallway that branched off in the corner, leading to two small offices and a bathroom. The man pushed the door to the bathroom open and shoved him through it. It was dim inside, and Charlie shuddered involuntarily as the man grabbed his hands, which were still bound behind him, and sliced through the cords.

Charlie bit back a groan as he brought his arms in front of him and flexed his hands; everything from the shoulders down was sore, aching from the forced immobility. The killer pushed him toward a urinal. "Go."

The commands were short, peremptory, as if the man was trying to keep their interaction as brief, as impersonal as possible. That suited Charlie just fine – although as he pulled down the zipper in his jeans he could feel the man's gaze on him, and it raised the hair on the back of his neck. The man couldn't see the front of him from where he was standing, but even so, Charlie felt unbearably vulnerable. In spite of the tension, the physical relief was immense, and he took a deep shaky breath as he re-zipped his jeans.

He turned, expecting the man would be waiting for him, perhaps holding the door and motioning him out, but instead the killer just stood there, staring at him with intense blue eyes. Charlie froze, standing where he was, his heartbeat escalating again. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the man waved his hand, which Charlie belatedly realized contained a small pistol, and opened the door, ushering Charlie through it. He put his head down and walked out in front of the man, and the thought occurred to him that if he was ever going to try to escape, now, while he was untied, was the time.

For a moment, reason took over, arguing that the man had a gun, but fear of the killer's atrocities derailed the pitiful attempt at rationalization. He could see the stairs to the lower part of the warehouse on the far side of the room, not much further than where his prison-chair sat. As he reached the center of the room and passed another chair, he reached out and grabbed it suddenly, yanking it behind him, between him and his captor.

He heard a curse, but the chair wasn't enough of an obstacle. As Charlie tried to spring away, a hand caught his T-shirt from behind. He still pulled forward with all of his might, he could hear the shirt tearing, the fabric starting to give, but it held, and they stumbled – him backward and the killer forward, both tumbling over the chair between them. Charlie came down hard on the wooden chair and solid floor with an involuntary grunt, and twisted, trying to writhe out of the man's grasp. The killer rolled over the chair, cursing, and came down on top of him, and Charlie gasped as a fist landed in his gut.

He fought back, punching and kicking, but he was no match for the larger man, who was by now swearing, uttering a long string of blistering curses, the blue eyes blazing with insane hate. A solid blow to Charlie's jaw stunned him, and he dazedly lifted his hands to ward off another, trying desperately to recall what he'd learned in the Bureau's self-defense classes. The fact that he'd stopped hitting back apparently hadn't registered with his attacker; the attempt had seemed to put him into a rage-induced frenzy, and he hit again, and again. The blows to Charlie's torso knocked the breath out of him, and a roundhouse punch to the side of his head made the room spin. He dropped arms that suddenly seemed to have no strength, his mouth working as he tried to bring in air, and finally the man stopped, chest heaving, spittle flying from his mouth.

He grabbed Charlie by the neck just as he managed to bring in a great ragged breath, and hissed, "Don't try that again, you little jerk!" He smacked Charlie's head sharply against the floor for emphasis, and paused for air, his body a dead weight on the smaller man's beneath him. Charlie's head was spinning from the blows and the contact with the floor, but even half-conscious, he was suddenly aware of the man's change of expression, their position, the fact that the man's eyes were roving over him. A wave of nausea and terror washed through him, and for a moment, he froze, then he did the only thing that he hoped would keep the man from pursuing any thoughts he might have of further assault. Charlie went limp, and closed his eyes.

He lay there, completely still, trying to ignore the pain, trying to regulate his breathing. He felt the man's weight shift, and could sense the killer's face drawing close to his, could feel his breath on his neck. He fought down a sense of claustrophobia and panic, forced his limbs to stay slack, and eventually, the weight shifted again, and the man pushed himself off, and onto his feet.

It was almost harder to lie motionless with the man off him; Charlie's heart was still pumping, his body electric with adrenaline, and he wanted nothing more than to try to leap to his feet and dash down the stairs. He couldn't chance it though, he knew; the man was right next to him, and Charlie knew he had already come close to pushing him over some kind of edge, and so he forced himself to lay still as his hands were bound again, and his feet along with them.

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Don bowed his head, and ran a hand across his forehead, more to hide his expression than anything else. "I really screwed this up," he rasped, almost in a whisper.

Megan shot a glance out the conference room window; the rest of the group was busy in the bullpen; it was a little after seven-thirty p.m. and they were alone in the room. She looked back at him, her face filled with sympathy and conviction. "No, you didn't. Don – he came after you – you didn't go looking for this. There's no doubt in my mind Robin was the initial target. If anything, you did your job too well; you made it too hard for him to get to her."

He sat back and lifted his agonized gaze to the ceiling, and then lowered his head again, shaking it. "I should have had protection on both Charlie and my dad. What was I thinking?"

"The same thing everyone else was thinking," replied Megan firmly. "The seven previous victims were all female – no one even considered otherwise."

"That's no excuse," Don insisted, his eyes on the table, his voice dull. "I should have thought-," he broke off, and ran a hand over his face again. "It's like the guy knows me better than I know myself. If anyone had asked me to name the person closest to me – I don't know who I would have picked, but it probably wouldn't have been Charlie. I just never consciously though of him that way." He raised his eyes to her, and she could see bewilderment in them, along with the pain. "But it turns out, he is – the guy couldn't have picked anyone that would hit me any harder. How did he even see that, when I didn't know myself?"

Megan spoke softly. "He must have seen you together somewhere – saw you interact."

Don shook his head. "I can't think of where that might be. The only places where Charlie and I even talked in the last several days were here, and at his house – two places this guy definitely wasn't. I was at his awards banquet Saturday, but I hardly got to say two words to him there – he was surrounded by other mathematicians all night. It's not like we had too many personal conversations during the last three weeks. In fact the only one was right here, yesterday, and it was about Amita." He fell silent for a moment. "I can't even begin to imagine what he's going through, what he's thinking. He probably thinks I betrayed him – hell, he's got to after he overheard what I said."

"What you said?"

Don put both hands to his face; rubbed it, then lowered them. He'd left this part out when he'd briefed Megan earlier. "Jill Cash told me to try to throw the killer by not losing my cool, and by trying to make him think he picked the wrong person. So I told him he screwed up by picking Charlie – that I didn't even like him." His voice shook a bit. "He must have had the phone on speaker – he said Charlie heard me."

"Don, that might not be true, and even if it was; I'm sure Charlie would know that you were trying to play the killer. He knows you don't feel that way."

"Does he?" Don snorted bitterly. "I sure as hell have never told him otherwise."

"It's a two-way street, Don," Megan chided gently. "Has Charlie ever said anything concerning how he feels about you?"

"No," muttered Don.

"Then don't beat yourself up. Don't you know how he feels about you, without him saying it?"

"Yeah," said Don softly, and closed his eyes. "I guess so."

'_Do I really?' _he asked himself._ 'We never talk about it. The problem is, I'm not that easy to read…does Charlie know how I feel, really? Hell, I hardly knew what he meant to me until now. I denied it, refused to see it…just like I refused to acknowledge what Robin meant to me the first time around. It took losing her to make me realize that I had to open up to her…_ "I can't lose him," he said, opening his eyes, and looking at her pleadingly. "I'll never forgive myself-,"

"We're not going to lose him," Megan replied with more confidence than she felt. They both sensed the flurry of movement outside the door, and turned just as Amita hurried in, waving a sheet of paper.

"We've got it," she exclaimed breathlessly. "It's an old warehouse district south of LAX, north of Artesia and east of 405. There's a group of old warehouses on several acres that have been abandoned and are in the process of being torn down and renovated."

Megan watched as the indecision and self-doubt dropped away, and Don leapt to his feet, seizing command of the situation, and sending out alerts to the waiting support teams that it was time to move. It was a marked contrast to the shaken man of a few moments before, and she wondered with misgiving, if things went badly, which one would emerge when this was over.

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"Wake up."

Charlie stirred as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and jolted awake as awareness of where he was returned. How on earth had he managed to fall asleep, he wondered? Granted he'd been up for over a day and a half; he knew exhaustion had to play a role, but even so…

Ryan Morgan looked down at the bound figure, watching him struggle to regain his composure. As the young man had awakened, sheer terror had flooded his face for a moment as he remembered where he was, but now it was receding, replaced by a tense, wary look that the professor apparently had to work at to maintain. He grabbed an arm and pulled him into a sitting position, made awkward by his bound feet. "You need to drink something, and eat a little," Morgan commanded, expressionlessly. "You're going to be out for a while.

Charlie winced as he sat up; he could feel the bruises from Morgan's assault as he moved. His tied legs were twisted sideways and his hands were bound in front of him; it made for an uncomfortable leaning/sitting position. There was an oversized plastic cup full of water sitting in front of him, and Morgan tossed a crusty piece of bread into his lap, that looked as if it might have been part of a takeout dinner.

He sat still for a moment, wondering if Morgan was going to untie him, but the man simply turned and walked away, gathering up folded tarps and sheets and heading for the stairs. It was nearly dark now, Charlie realized, probably around eight p.m. or so; he'd been out for almost two hours, and it appeared that Morgan was nearly done packing. His gut twisted at the thought. They were about to leave this place, and still Don hadn't come. Soon there would be no way for them to know where he was.

The thought was overwhelming, and he closed his eyes and bowed his head, fighting back tears. For a moment, he teetered on the brink, nearly giving in to the despair, but then Don's words from their earlier argument came back to him. _'I thought you had a little more backbone than that…' _He swallowed hard, and took a deep shaky breath. Somehow, he had to be strong, to figure out how to survive as long as he could. He opened his eyes, and awkwardly reached with bound hands for the cup. He was desperately thirsty, and although his throat was still tight with unshed tears, a few swallows opened it, and he gulped, letting the water slide down. It was metallic tasting, but he didn't care.

He saved just a swallow or two to help wash the bread down, which he was determined to eat, not out of hunger, but because he knew he had to. He was long past the point where his stomach was complaining, but he couldn't afford to turn down whatever meager sustenance that the killer gave him. He had the awful feeling that Joanie Shire's body was still there, behind him and to his right, but he didn't dare turn to see. There would be no way he could manage to eat if he looked. He picked up the crusty bread with both hands, tore off a bite with his teeth, and chewed mechanically, ignoring his sore jaw. _Don't think; don't feel. Do what you need to survive…_

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End Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks, reviewers. I am not going to disclose who the killer attacks, rapes, or kills in the upcoming chapters, but I do want to assure any of you who are wondering that I intend to stick to a T rating in this fic. There will be no explicit rape scenes. Right now, I'm about 10 chapters ahead of you._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 16**

Alan worked his way impatiently around the passengers exiting the plane, reaching for his cell phone, as he strode down the concourse toward baggage claim. One of the major airlines had grounded the majority of its planes to address a previously unperformed maintenance check, and as a result, all of the other airlines were overbooked, trying to ferry displaced passengers, ranging from desperate to irate, to their destinations. Even Alan's protestations that he had a family emergency didn't carry a lot of weight – many passengers were claiming they were in the same situation. He had finally gotten a flight that evening out of Chicago, and he glanced at his watch as his cell phone connected with Don's. Eight-fifteen p.m. He'd been trying for nearly twenty-four hours to get back home, and it felt like days. "Donnie? I'm here – just landed. Any word?"

Don manipulated the wheel of his SUV as he pulled out of the LAPD parking lot, which they'd used as a marshalling area. He glanced quickly at Megan in the seat beside him; her face appeared pale in the darkness, set off by the dark flak jacket. Behind him, a stream of vehicles followed - members of his team, along with hordes of backup, SWAT, LAPD and others. Nearly every law enforcement agency in L.A. had offered assistance; everyone wanted to be part of one the biggest busts the town had seen in some time – the apprehension of the notorious Flower Killer. "Dad – I can't talk now, but I will tell you we've got a location and we're going in. Keep that to yourself – I'll call you when it's over."

The line disconnected, and Alan stopped moving for a minute, almost causing another traveler to run into the back of him. Don's voice had been harsh, businesslike, and the abruptness made Alan apprehensive. On the other hand, the fact that they had something, a location, was great news. He slowly put his cell phone in his pocket, his feet beginning to move again of their own accord, as fear and hope swirled inside him.

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Ryan Morgan shifted some items in the back of the packed van, making room for his captive, who he would lay on the floor, under a sheet. He had pulled the van inside a loading bay on the first floor of the warehouse; out of sight, and as he stepped back, he was suddenly grateful for the precaution. The loading bay opened onto a short deadend drive, almost like an alley, but wider. He could see flashes of light on the brick wall across from the loading bay, and he stepped to the doorway and peered up toward the main street at the end of the alley, in time to see a vehicle speed by. It was followed by another, and then by other vehicles, some police cars, all of them official looking, and none of them with lights or sirens – only the headlights, each vehicle lighting up the end of the alley like a strobe as it flitted past.

He swore softly under his breath, his heart hammering. He had no doubt they were here for him, and his first instinct was to run, but as he watched, he realized they weren't stopping. They were in the right general location, but the warehouse district sat on several acres, and judging by the direction they were headed, they were starting on the other end, in some of the warehouses closer to the new construction. If he moved quickly, he still had time.

He dashed back into the warehouse, across the first floor to the stairs, taking them two at a time, thankful he'd already turned out the single bulb he'd been working by – the warehouse was lit only by reflected streetlights, streaming faintly through the windows. The lights from the vehicles were reflecting off the warehouse across the street, and could be seen in the high frosted windows as they flashed past. Dr. Eppes had apparently seen them too; Morgan was only halfway up the stairs when he heard him shout.

"Shut up!" he rasped, as he made the top of the stairs, and tore toward Eppes, in a rage. "Shut up!"

It was highly unlikely that the professor had been heard; the windows were closed, and the vehicle noise and any radio chatter would likely have drowned out sound regardless, but Morgan wasn't taking any chances. Charlie froze, staring at him wide-eyed in the dim silver light, as Morgan pulled the syringe from his pocket and moved toward him. As he bent over him to administer the injection, Charlie twisted, landing on his side, and rolled, calling out again at the same time. Morgan launched himself, landing on top of him, pinning him against the floor as he emptied the syringe into Charlie's arm, then held him there, his hand over the professor's mouth until his struggles ceased. Then he lifted the limp body over his shoulder, and headed down the dark stairs.

He waited until the last of the vehicles was past before pulling his van out of the loading dock, and quietly, with headlights doused, rolled to the end of the alley and turned right. The other vehicles had already turned the corner on their way to the construction site, and Morgan turned the other way, proceeding out of the complex, into the night. As he reached the far end of the warehouse district, he turned his lights on, and pulled out into a side street, headed for the highway.

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Harley Meisner stood swaying the shadows at the back of the alley, watching the show. He was forty-five, but looked seventy-five, and had spent so many years on the street, had pickled his brain with so many bottles of booze, that he barely remembered his own name. The alleys in and around the old warehouses had been his home for a number of those years, along with a score of other derelicts. He rarely left the area, venturing out onto the surrounding streets only to panhandle and sometimes to get a meal at a nearby shelter, when the donations weren't enough to cover both food and his daily ration of cheap wine.

His mind, as always, was befuddled by alcohol, but he'd lived on the streets long enough to know trouble when he saw it. The man in the white truck was trouble. Even if Harley's suspicions hadn't been aroused by the sight of someone so well kept and so secretive in the area, he'd been alerted by the screams he'd heard on occasion, coming out of the old warehouse to his left. As hardened as he was, those screams had disturbed him enough that he'd even approached a cop on the street the other day to tell him about it, hoping the officer would come in to the warehouse area and chase the man in the white panel truck away, and leave Harley's alley in peace once more. Unfortunately, the cop had waved him off. For some reason, not quite known to Harley, people had a hard time understanding him.

He stood tucked in the shadows behind a dumpster and watched as the vehicles paraded by at the other end of the alley, observing the man by his truck through the doorway of the loading dock. Maybe the cop had said something after all – maybe they were sending officers in. The man had been up and down inside the warehouse, packing things in the vehicle for the past several hours, and as the last of the cars sped past; he came quickly to the dock with what looked like a body over his shoulder, which he put in the truck. A few minutes later, he had pulled out. Harley knew the man had come and gone several times in the last few weeks, but he always returned, and he had no reason to think this time would be different.

He stood for a moment and took a swig of his wine, contemplating the situation, then began to totter down the alley, to see where the cops had gone. He should tell them they were in the wrong place.

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Upon entering the warehouse complex, the team had looked for parked vehicles; the killer had to have transportation, and that had led them to the construction area on south side of the complex, where the only vehicles were parked. They'd cleared three warehouses closest to the vehicles, working their way from east to west, and desperation was beginning to rear its ugly head again. Don had also sent other teams to the north side of the site, trying to cover as much ground as quickly and quietly as possible, but there were at least two dozen large warehouses in the area, most of them the older, outdated two-story types, packed in closely together. It was going to take at least two hours, he realized, to get through them all, and he spoke on his cell phone to Lieutenant Gary Walker, who was coordinating surveillance on the surrounding streets. "This is going to take longer than we expected," he said into the phone, as he watched a group exit the next warehouse. The leader looked at him and gave a 'thumbs down', and the group moved on to the next one. "We'd better get your net established as quickly as possible, in case we flush him out of one of these, and he decides to run."

"I've already got it set up," Walker informed him. "There's a fair amount of traffic on the streets outside of there, though. You guys need to give us a heads up if he runs, and tell us what he's driving."

"Okay, hang tight." Don disconnected, and turned at the sound of Colby's voice. The agent was approaching him, towing a wizened ragged derelict.

"Don, I think this guy might have something."

Don's eyes narrowed as he took in the swaying man in front of him. "What's your name?"

"Harrrley," the man belched, sending out a wave of alcohol fumes. "Harley Meisner. You guys're in the hhwrong place."

Don frowned at him, as David and Liz trotted over, their curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

"The screamsss came from thad way." The drunk gestured over his shoulder, to the west side of the complex, and the movement made him stagger a little. "I think hhit was the guy in the van."

The team exchanged a startled glance, and Don looked at the man, who backed up a little at the intensity in his eyes. "Can you show us?"

A scant three minutes later, they were three blocks up the road and around the corner, pouring out of vehicles in front of some warehouses they'd passed on the way in. Don pulled the wide-eyed drunk out of his SUV, rough in his haste. "Which one?" he demanded urgently, as Mike Shire, white-faced, pushed up through the gathering group of cops and agents.

The attention was a little more than Harley had bargained for; he looked frightened as he jabbed an unsteady finger at the warehouse. "Thad one." He watched, gaping, as the agent in front of him gave a few sharp, terse commands, and the group spread out around the building, covering the exits.

Don pounded down a side alley to the nearest entrance, through an open dock door, pausing only for the group to gather for entry, leading them in. They fanned out inside, moving cautiously through the dark floor, checking out the discarded crates that littered the place. Someone found a light, and a few surviving bulbs came on, two on the ground floor and one on the second. He could smell it – the scent of blood and death, and his heart began to pound painfully in his chest. "Charlie?" he yelled.

Mike Shire, David, and Colby took the stairs, and realizing there was nothing on the first floor; Don followed them, with Megan and Jill Cash behind him. The place was swarming with officers now, roughly tearing through the crates, and as Don reached the top, he heard Shire's agonized cry. "Joanie – aw, God – Jesus…"

His heart dropped with a sickening lurch as he saw Shire bent over the body strapped to the board, convulsing with sobs, but he didn't have time to deal with him – he had to find Charlie, had to find Charlie… "Charlie?"

He ran for the opposite end of the room, his head swiveling, eyes searching as he went, and rammed his way in through a door on the far end, not waiting for back up. "Charlie?!" The small room was empty.

Colby caught him as he reached the second one, and put a restraining hand on his arm. "Come on, Don, by the book," he said softly, and Don somehow went into tactical mode, kicking the door open for Colby, forcing himself to cover him properly. It too, was empty, the restroom, empty; the crates, empty…

It became apparent, as he looked around, that the second floor of the warehouse had indeed been the place. The blood that had soaked into the wooden floor, the chairs sitting, still facing where the camera must have sat, the support beams from which the sheets must have hung – this was it. He stood there, just staring at the chair on the right, the one Charlie had been sitting in during the video. He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see Megan. Beyond her, Jill Cash and an officer were pulling Mike Shire to his feet; the man was disintegrating, falling apart in front of his eyes. And he, Don, was rooted to the floor, unable to move. Charlie was gone – he'd been too late.

Megan spoke softly. "I'll get the team out, have them secure the site, and get the crime techs up here. Wright just showed up. You need to get hold of yourself, and get back outside, give him a report. David went out to talk to Meisner to see if he saw a vehicle. He'll call the vehicle description in to Walker if he gets one."

He nodded, trying to gather his faculties, and she looked at him closely. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, and began to stride away from her toward some LAPD officers, suddenly moving again, back in control, back in charge. _Bury the uncertainty, the fear – Charlie can't afford that right now._ He called out to cops rummaging through the crates. "All right guys, save it for the crime scene folks, okay?"

He helped Mike Shire down the stairs, along with Jill Cash, phoning in an ambulance as he went. The man was clearly having a breakdown, and Don tried not to wonder, as he guided the trembling, broken shell of a man, if that was in store for him.

Outside, he broke away; barking commands, marshalling groups to check the surrounding warehouses, making sure nothing was overlooked. He was aware of Wright and the police chief, standing to the side of a patrol car, watching him with speculation, but at the moment, he could care less. He had a job to do.

It was only hours later, after they had finished at the warehouses and Wright ordered him to go home and get some sleep, after he had gone to the Craftsman and quietly updated his father, after he was lying in his bed at his apartment, that he let go. The frustration, rage, and panic rose inside him until it spilled out in a guttural cry of pain, heard by no one but him.

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End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 17**

Megan shot a glance at Don the next morning. She was in early, but he was already there when she arrived. Wright had ordered him to go home for some rest the night before, but Megan wondered how long he had stayed there, and if he actually got any sleep. His face was wan and drawn, with uncharacteristic stubble and dark circles under bloodshot eyes, and her gaze followed him as he got up to go for another coffee – at least his third.

She also kept an eye in the direction of the elevators, and as soon as she spied A.D. Wright, she got up to head him off. He raised an eyebrow as she approached him. "Good morning, Agent Reeves."

"Good morning sir," she replied quietly. "Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to speak to you privately."

"Certainly."

She led the way to small, windowless conference room off the hallway, and they sat, facing each other. "I'm assuming this is about the case," Wright said, leaning back in his chair.

Megan took a deep breath. '_No sense beating around the bush,_' she told herself. Don would be furious if he knew she was doing this, but she'd seen Mike Shire last night, had seen what this case had done to him. As upset as she was over Charlie, she was just as worried about her SAC. "Yes, sir. I'm concerned about Don. I'm not sure he should be so close to this one."

"Are you questioning my judgment, agent?"

Her eyes flashed a bit, but she kept her composure. "Sir, Mike Shire is restrained in a psychiatric unit right now, under suicide watch, being treated for a mental breakdown. I think you asked too much of him, and you're asking too much of Don."

Wright raised his eyebrows at the bold statement, but a trace of a smile came to his lips. "Don't play around agent," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "Just come out and say what you think."

She flushed, but answered him evenly. "You just got it."

He nodded, sobering. "I did offer the option to stand down to both of them, privately, and they both refused. The fact is, Mike Shire was - and Don Eppes is now - the main contact for the suspect. Until we get some leads, Don is the only link we have." His face clouded. "However, after observing Shire yesterday, I have to admit; I would have called it another way in his case, had I known." He looked at Megan directly. "They are two different people however. Mike has always been more of an introverted, intellectual type, and always seemed relatively sensitive, for someone in his position. Don's a lot tougher, more hard-nosed. You can't assume that they will process this in the same way."

Megan shook her head. "Sometimes 'tougher' just means the person internalizes more. Maybe you can at least take him off field duty – keep him as the contact, but keep him out of the field. Keep him away from the crime scenes." She sighed. "Look, Don would kill me if he knew I was having this conversation. It's just – I'm worried about him. The fact that it's Charlie – well, it's hitting all of us hard, and I can't imagine what he's going through. He's holding himself responsible for this."

Wright nodded. "He shouldn't be, although I wouldn't expect any less of him. All right, agent, point taken. I will spend some additional time observing him, and then decide if I will take some action." He studied her for a moment. "You don't pull any punches. Are you this direct with your SAC?"

She gave him a wry smile. "I can always tell Don what I think. We don't always agree, but I'm truthful, and I think he appreciates that."

Wright smiled and nodded. "That's wise of him. Thank you for your input, agent."

She rose. "Thank you, sir."

He watched her as she exited, his smile fading, and he sighed. She was right, he thought to himself. He was expecting more of his SAC than he had a right to, but he didn't have another option.

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Ryan Morgan got as far as Barstow before he changed his mind.

His destination had been Denver – it still was, but he realized he couldn't go there quite yet. Denver was where it all had started; where he had been removed from his internship and ousted from the medical profession by the chief surgeon of the University of Colorado Hospital, a man named Randolph Cook. He had a daughter, an FBI agent, named Allison Cook, who Ryan had dated at one point, briefly – just two dates before the snobby bitch had called it off.

They were the catalysts for what had happened since – after killing the woman in Wyoming, and finding out how easy it was to get away with it, Ryan had a flash of genius. He could make Randolph and Allison Cook pay, without anyone dreaming he was behind it. He would stage killings in major cities, and garner enough attention so when he moved back to Denver and the killings started there; they would assume it was the unknown serial murderer, the Flower Killer. He would target the Denver SAC, Allison's boss, as he had done the other SACs, killing people close to them. As part of that plan he would kill her, taking revenge on her and her father. No one would associate the killer with Ryan Morgan; a brief brush with the law concerning prescription drugs was a far cry from serial murders.

Disguise hadn't been much of an issue in Seattle or L.A., but it would be in Denver – he was known there, and he didn't want it to be recognized that he was back in town. He had the dark wig and some brown contacts, and he was planning to grow in facial hair, which he detested ordinarily, but he knew it was necessary. In spite of his light brown hair, his facial hair was dark, as were his eyebrows. He felt confident that all of it – the beard, the wig, the brown contacts - would alter his appearance sufficiently. His original plan had been to go to a place outside of Denver, which he had already selected – an isolated spot where he could keep Dr. Eppes, and allow time for the facial hair to grow. Once he was sufficiently disguised, he would begin.

There was one problem with all of this, which he hadn't anticipated when he began – the need. He hadn't accounted for the craving that would be generated by it – the addiction to the thrill of the cut. It had been bad after the woman in Wyoming, but he was still new to human victims at that point, and while he was stalking Agent Shire and selecting his targets in Seattle, he had managed to assuage his needs by cutting stray dogs; the way he'd started. Once he started kidnapping and cutting human victims in Seattle, however, the addiction had burgeoned. During his weeks of observing Agent Eppes in L.A., he found the animals weren't providing enough thrill, and he had tried to keep the need at bay by beating and raping Joanie Shire, but even that was barely enough. With each victim, he found it harder to hold off, and now he was facing at least two weeks of waiting. Two weeks of waiting – and a male hostage.

In spite of what he'd tried to insinuate on the video, he had never been interested in other men. That was wrong, and sinful, he told himself. He'd put on that act solely to get to Agent Eppes. But now, in the van, on the dusty highway, he found his mind wandering to the slight figure in the back. He could beat him, torture him, he rationalized, and try to stop at that. The problem was, the need was now so strong, he wasn't sure he'd be able to quit once he'd started. He kept finding himself fantasizing – touching his captive's body, pressing his scalpel to his chest…

He jerked his mind away, and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He couldn't chance it. The risk that he would lose control was too great – he might give in to the need to cut the professor before it was time, and the carefully constructed sequence would be ruined. He had to go somewhere else before Denver, while his appearance was being changed. Somewhere he could find another victim, a woman, just to get him through until it was time for Denver.

He had come to that realization just outside Barstow, and at the juncture of Highways 15 and 40, he impulsively changed lanes, and took 40 south toward Albuquerque. He was now passing through the tiny town of Houck, AZ; it was late morning, and he could hear his captive beginning to stir in the back of the van. That stretch of the highway was desolate, surrounded by desert, and after a mile or so, he found a pull-off, a gravel road, which apparently wandered off to nowhere. He took it for half a mile, and pulled out of sight behind a rocky outcropping, waving away the dust as he stepped out of the van into blazing heat, carrying a small vinyl bag full of syringes and bottles.

He opened the door, and the professor moaned and stirred as he lifted the sheet, closing his eyes tightly against the bright sunlight. Morgan withdrew the proper dose of sedative from a vial, and unceremoniously jabbed a needle into his hip as the young man's eyes fluttered open, watching as they drifted shut again, and the body relaxed. He stood for just moment longer, staring at him as a trickle of sweat ran down his ear. He wiped it away, and reached out and placed his damp hand on the professor's red T-shirt, on his chest, touching him… He suddenly came to his senses, and jerked his hand away as if he'd been stung, slammed the doors and leaped back into the van and sat, his hands tight on the wheel, breathing as if he'd been running. He started the van again, turned up the air conditioning, and wheeled around sharply, heading back toward Highway 40, and Albuquerque.

He found a hotel a few miles outside of Albuquerque, just past the Isleta Indian Reservation, that met his needs. It was short distance off the highway on a side road, and a few of the rooms were separate, cottage-style, with a fair amount of space between them. He took the farthest one back, out of sight of the one story plain brick building that housed the regular hotel rooms and the office. The place not only had vacancies; that was all it had. No one else was staying there, and for good reason. There was nothing else around for miles but desert, not even a gas station, and the place was seedy, the furnishings worn. Ryan had to shoo a scorpion out of the room, which he startled when he opened the door.

For him, though, it was perfect. The owner of the hotel was a tiny, ancient, sour-faced man, who took cash without question, and went back to chewing on his wet cigar stub, shuffling into a back room that smelled of stale grease, to watch television. He was supremely uninterested, and even if he were, he couldn't see the last cottage from where he was, couldn't see as Ryan lifted his burden, wrapped in a sheet, and carried him through the door.

Inside, he laid the unconscious man on the floor, and brought in a few bags with what he needed. Morgan was usually fastidiously clean to the point of obsession, and he was in desperate need of a shower. He reveled in it – the tub and shower were plain, but moderately clean, not moldy like the old shower at the warehouse. Afterward, he dressed, got out a razor, and looked at himself in the mirror. He had two days worth of the hated stubble on his face, and it was making his skin crawl. He glanced out the bathroom door at his victim on the floor. Dr. Eppes' face was worse than his, the stubble dark and pronounced, and Morgan made an expression of distaste.

He turned to the mirror, and with the disposable razor, carefully began shaving the sides of his face, creating the beginnings of a mustache, which continued on either side of his mouth, and attached to a small, trim beard. He washed off traces of shaving cream and looked at his reflection for moment – his hands itched to take the rest of the hair off, but he restrained himself. He glanced again at Charlie, and then, impulsively, stepped outside the bathroom, stooped down, and began lathering his face as he lay there on the ratty carpet. If Morgan couldn't shave himself cleanly, at least he wouldn't have to look at the other man's stubble. He would make his captive shower, too, when he woke, just as he'd made Joanie Shire do. Men smelled bad, worse than women did, when they didn't shower. He stroked the razor gently, carefully, over his victim's face, trying to detach himself from the glorious feeling of skin under his fingertips.

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Don ran a hand over his face, wearily, reflecting that he needed a shave, as he spoke into the cell phone. "Yeah. Okay. Anything more on the white truck? Okay, I'll be back in the office in about an hour. Right." He disconnected, flipped the phone shut, and looked at Alan across the kitchen table.

His father sat, looking as tired as Don felt, with his shoulders slumped. Neither of them had touched the sandwiches in front of them. Alan eyed him, but not with hope. "Any news on the truck?"

Don sighed and shook his head. "No, other than we think it's really a van, instead of a truck. Meisner kept calling it a white truck, but his description was pretty confused, so Colby ran some pictures past him this morning. He ended up picking out one of those square vans – you know, panel vans – the kind that small businesses use." His voice dropped dejectedly. "The problem is, it could be anywhere by now, and we don't have a plate."

"What about the man? Could he describe him?"

Don shook his head with exasperation. "Dad, the guy can barely talk. He doesn't remember what his parent's names were, or where he was born. He gave us a description – said the guy was tall and white, which we already knew, and he _thinks_ the man had brown hair. Said he was never close enough to get a good look, but remembered the man dressed nicely. Considering what Meisner had on, the guy could be wearing duds from the Salvation Army and still look sharp." He fell silent, and they both stared at their sandwiches for a moment.

"Larry called," said Alan, after a moment. "He said he and Amita were helping you guys out, wanted to know how I was doing. I tried to call Amita, but didn't get an answer. I was surprised to hear she was back – I thought Charlie said she'd be over in Delhi for at least another week. Poor girl. I wonder how she's handling this."

Don lifted a shoulder in a brusque, impatient gesture and scowled at the floor. "I wouldn't know. I sent her home after she finished the program."

Alan frowned, trying to decipher his son's reaction. "I just think it's funny that I heard from Larry, and not from her. I think maybe I'll call her, see if she's okay."

Don took a savage bite of his sandwich. "Suit yourself," he muttered, through a mouthful of turkey and bread.

Alan stared at him. "What's going on?"

Don took another bite, avoiding his eyes. "Nothing." His dad didn't need anything further to stew over, he thought to himself, although Don would feel a perverse sense of satisfaction in seeing someone else who felt about her infidelity as he did. However, it was none of his business - his business was to get Charlie back. There would be time to worry about Charlie's relationship with Amita after that - in fact, he'd be thrilled if that was all they had to worry about. "I've got to get back in." He rose, stuffing the rest of the half sandwich in his mouth, and taking a swig of water.

"Maybe you should give it a break, get some rest," Alan said quietly. "There's not a lot you can do now anyway."

Don finally met his gaze. Alan looked tired, and the fear for Charlie drove a worried look that had become a constant part of his expression, but concern for his oldest son was also reflected in his eyes. "I'm okay, Dad. I'm better off there – I go crazy thinking about it if I'm not."

Alan nodded. "I know what you mean. But stop by tonight – bring Robin if you want." He tried to sound indifferent as he spoke; he didn't want pressure Don further by seeming needy.

Don turned and pushed through the kitchen door. "I'll see."

When Don used that phrase, it was tantamount to saying, '_I doubt it_,' Alan knew. He watched the door swing shut behind his son, with a leaden heart. In spite of his own worry, he could see how heavily this was weighing on Don. He prayed that they would find Charlie soon, for both of his sons' sakes.

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End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: And now for a bit of whumping..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 18**

Charlie woke, stirring before his eyes opened, frowning when they did. He was lying on a floor, he realized; it looked like a hotel room. He vaguely remembered waking in a vehicle, and then there was the warehouse before that… The memory brought a return of sick, pervasive fear. He had no idea where he was or what time it was – he was lost in space and time, as if he'd been transported to one of Larry's alternate universes, dimensionless.

He felt extremely thirsty and weak, but he was unbound, he realized. He barely had time to process that, before he felt a foot nudge him. "Get up."

He rolled on his back, twisting slightly so that he could see behind him, as he cautiously, shakily, pushed himself to a sitting position. The killer was standing next to him, holding the compact pistol. The smiling, cocky man of the previous day was gone – the killer now looked angry, tense, ready to explode. He'd changed his appearance too – he had the start of a mustache and a neat Van Dyke beard. He gave Charlie a kick. "You're filthy – you're a pig," he spat, and flung a pair of clean boxers at him. "Get a shower."

Charlie caught the boxers reflexively and stared for a moment, taken aback by Morgan's demeanor, the odd request, then as the foot shoved him again, slowly got to his feet. Without appearing to, he took a quick glance around the room, trying to get his bearings. It was a decent-sized hotel room, but worn and shabby, with two double beds, one unmade – apparently, his captor had been napping. An ancient window-unit air conditioner buzzed loudly in the window; the dusty drapes were drawn. Charlie could feel the man's eyes on him, raking him up and down, and he clasped the boxers to his chest protectively as he backed toward the bathroom, behind him.

"Leave the door unlocked," barked Morgan; and Charlie slowly shut the door and turned to look around him, still clutching the boxers with both hands. The bathroom appeared as if it had last been remodeled in the seventies, and contained plain, utilitarian white fixtures – a sink and a commode to his left, and a tub with a showerhead to his right. He used the toilet and slipped out of his tennis shoes, socks and jeans, then stepped over to the sink. He washed his hands; then gulped down two glasses of water, which were warm and musty, and tasted like heaven.

His eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror, and he stared at it for a moment, as if trying to reacquaint himself. He slowly set the boxers on the sink. Something was strange – the bruises drew his eye first, but then he realized that he was clean-shaven. It couldn't be – it had been at least two days since he'd been taken, right? The drugs had made things fuzzy, but still…He closed his eyes, confused, then opened them again, and touched his face, with a sick feeling growing in his stomach. Someone – it had to be the killer – had shaved him while he was asleep.

A fist slammed the door on the other side, making him jump. "Hurry up in there!"

"Okay." Charlie gave the door a nervous glance, and pulled his T-shirt over his head, glancing again in the mirror, trying to assess the damage the man's fists had caused. What he saw made him gasp and step backward. His chest, normally well endowed with dark hair, was also bare, and he glanced down wildly, trying to determine what else the man had done. A quick look assured him that the razor had only contacted his face and chest – nothing else was touched, but the realization was enough to make him stagger, abruptly nauseous, and sit down hard on the edge of the tub. The man had been touching him while he was under – he was suddenly up and over at the toilet, feeling as though he was going vomit. He held it off by leaning against the wall, taking in great gulps of air, and then hurriedly moved toward the tub and the shower, turning on the water. He knew one thing – he didn't want to give the man a reason to come in there while he was undressed.

He shuddered, and then slid off his boxers and shot a look at the door. The man had said to leave it unlocked, but…he stepped over and very quietly turned the small lock in the doorknob, then all but jumped in the shower, hurriedly washing. He had finished, dried himself, and was stepping out of the tub, still holding the towel, when the doorknob rattled. "I thought I told you to leave it unlocked!" The voice on the other side of the door sounded enraged, and Charlie lunged for the boxers on the sink and pulled them on, then turned the lock, unlocking the door, but not opening it. _Please stay out there – don't come in…_

"Sorry."

The door swung open with a bang, and the man stood in the entrance, the handsome face contorted with rage. Charlie stared back, his hands unconsciously crossed in front of his chest, and noticed with a jolt of fear that the man was holding a large black baton – the same thing he'd used to beat his other victims.

Morgan strode toward him, lifting the club over his head. "I'll teach you to disobey me, you little shit!"

Charlie backed stumbling against the tile wall, raising his arms, as the first blow crashed down.

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Ryan Morgan literally ran out of the hotel room.

He'd beaten his captive until he was curled in a fetal position on the floor, his arms over his head and face, repeatedly striking him, until he was half-conscious. He'd bound the professor's hands again, and paused, looking down at the young man, breathing heavily, trying mightily to contain himself. Each blow had ramped up Morgan's level of excitement, and he knew, if he stayed there much longer, he would act on it – he would submit to the call of the scalpel. He'd come dangerously close earlier in the day also, after shaving the man's chest, prepping the area, just as in surgery, to be cut. He had to get out – had to find another victim – a woman. Women were safe.

He hastily dragged the professor, who groaned at the movement, over to a chair in the corner. It was a cheap vinyl padded job, but it had a back and arms, and Morgan pulled the smaller man over and bound him to it, then bound his ankles to the chair legs. He taped his victim's mouth shut, and then hastily rolled out some plastic sheeting on the floor between the two beds, making sure there were cords nearby. Then he grabbed his keys and the pistol, checked for his wallet, and dashed for the door.

He forced himself to drive out of the lot at a reasonable pace, forced himself to keep to the speed limit on the highway. He had to have release – he was losing his mind. He couldn't think straight; and if he couldn't think, he'd make mistakes.

By the time he reached the outer limits of Albuquerque, he was calmer, breathing a bit steadier. He stopped at an ATM and withdrew money. He was solvent financially, at least for a while. He'd cashed the checks from his odd jobs to cover expenses from the last few weeks, and he still had some cash in his account at a Denver bank. If he had to, he'd call his mother, and have her send some to his account. With the money in his pocket, he started to cruise the streets.

He couldn't do it the right way – he couldn't wait that long – to take the time needed to study the local SAC. Instead, he made it easy – he drove until he found the red light district of town. It was early evening, and several prospects were strolling the streets, trolling for johns. He made a few passes, and picked out his next victim.

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Carlotta glanced at the girl next to her as the white van drove up, parking up the block slightly, the passenger side door to the curb. "You want 'im?" she asked.

Her counterpart took a lazy drag on a cigarette and shook her head. "Your turn, baby," she said, and Carlotta minced over to the window on her heels and leaned against the door, so she could get a look at the man inside. "What you want, sugah?"

The man was good-looking, and he flashed her a smile. "What you got?"

"I do anything, for a price," she murmured, casting furtive glances up and down the street.

"Well, get in then," the man replied, his smile teasing. He had nice teeth. "Let's talk about it."

A brief conversation later, they'd agreed on a service and a price, and were riding out of town to the man's hotel. Carlotta knew of it, she'd been there several times with other johns – but none as good-looking as this one. She preened, fixing her dark locks in the visor mirror, and ducked down obligingly in her seat as they drove past the office, noting with approval he had a cottage way back. Less chance of getting busted, although the old man that owned the place had never called the cops on a hooker, as far as she knew.

He held the door for her, like a gentleman, but her smiled faded with her first step into the room. "Whoa."

She stared in shock at the young man tied to the chair with his mouth taped shut, dressed only in boxers, his body covered in bruises. The man pushed her roughly into the room and slammed the door, and she whirled to face him, only to confront the neat semi-automatic pistol he held in his hand. She froze for just a second, then mustered a bit of false bravado and went to push past him. "I'm outta here. I don't do nothing that involves hurtin' people."

He grabbed her arm and shoved her backwards, and she stumbled and fell on the floor next to the man in the chair. She looked up at him wildly, asking no one in particular, "What's goin' on?"

With his mouth taped, the young man obviously couldn't answer, but didn't appear afraid as much as he did sad. Instead, he just looked at her, his eyes filled with horror and pity, and a single tear streaked down his cheek. She stared back at him, and it was then that she knew she was really in trouble.

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End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews. I generally wait until I get a few before I post the next chapter - it gives me some idea of whether or not the readers have had a chance to read and comment on the last one, and often I make adjustments to upcoming chapters based on the comments. As soon as I think I have a good feel that the readers are following the story and it's understandable, I post again, usually once a day. If you read into that, you'll realize that if you send more reviews, you may be able to prod me into posting faster. :)_

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 19**

Charlie tensed as the alarm went off, and shot a glance at the cheap digital clock. It was 3:00 a.m., and he was still tied to the chair, shivering in the breeze generated by the air conditioner, and from the aftermath of the horror created by his captor. His body ached, and his wrists were raw from repeated attempts to get the cords binding them to give.

The killer had overcome the young woman easily, dragging her over to the plastic sheeting on the floor between the beds, and tied her wrists and ankles to the legs of the beds on either side. Then he'd taped her mouth shut, cut off her clothing, and began working with his scalpel, building slowly to some kind of nirvana, some sick ecstasy. He'd placed towels around her body – not hotel towels, but others that he apparently had for this purpose - and left her to bleed out.

She'd moaned and cried for hours, the noises muffled by tape, but the murderer, finally sated, had fallen asleep on a bed right beside her, completely oblivious. Charlie, however, wasn't. Every moan, every cry, twisted his heart, just as Joanie's had. He couldn't bear it anymore – the pain, the terror, the suffering. He had nothing left inside to combat this. He had been starved and beaten, but it was the mental stress, the horrors he'd witnessed, that were his undoing. He was no longer capable of even thinking straight; the events had placed him on the verge of shock, and he had finally given in, crept into the recesses of his mind; somewhere he hadn't been, at least as far as anyone else knew, since Don had been shot three years ago.

That retreat had happened twice previously – once at Princeton and once when his mother was dying. His gifted mind, overactive and hypersensitive to stress to the point of pain, would retreat into mathematical analysis, requiring concentration so intense it would block out all else, dulling the effects of the stress – and unfortunately, many other aspects of real life along with it. When a full-blown retreat happened, he would seize on something with the complexity to occupy his mind for days, weeks, and refuse to consider anything else, barely even eating or sleeping.

The episode in Princeton had been brought on by the stress of being catapulted, at thirteen, into an adult world. His mother had taken him to see someone when it had happened there, and gotten angry when the doctor had tried to label him with obsessive personality disorder, among other things. He had come away with the concept that to retreat into himself was somehow shameful, and had felt the only person that really understood why he needed to do it was his mother. Don certainly hadn't understood it – he had been angry with Charlie because of his retreat during his mother's illness, and again during the brief period after Don had been shot. Charlie could still clearly remember Don confronting him at the koi pond, the anger and frustration on his face as his brother grabbed his arms, as if literally trying to shake some sense into him.

Don clearly expected him to be stronger – and in many ways, he was a lot stronger than he had been. He'd come through several stressful periods since then, without the retreat – well, perhaps a few times when he had a hard time bringing himself to work on a case after a traumatic event, because the urge to retreat, the drag on his brain, was so strong. It had happened not long before this, when he'd been shot at himself. He'd fought it off, though, with Colby's help, at least as far as anyone knew.

The fact was, when overwhelmed he still slipped into it, at night, when no one was around to see. He'd suspended conscious thought, and allowed his mind to slide into another state for just a few hours, guiltily trading sleep for immersion in ultra-concentration. It had been enough to keep him from falling into retreat wholesale, barely enough, although the tendency to do that was always there. He'd reached the point in the current situation where to deny it entirely was no longer possible. That was where he had been, deep inside his own mind, when the alarm clock sounded.

Morgan stirred on the bed and shut off the alarm, then leaned with his face over the edge and studied his victim. He reached down and felt for a pulse, and finding none, rolled off the other side of the bed with a sigh. Charlie closed his eyes as Morgan came around to the girl's body, released her bonds, and rolled her up in the plastic, and moments later, he heard the sound of doors, hotel and van, and then more crinkling as Morgan came back in, lifted the plastic-covered body and bore it out to the van. Then the door shut, and he heard the sound of the van's engine. Finally alone, Charlie bowed his head and succumbed to the tears, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

'_I thought you had a little more backbone than that…'_ In his mind, he could see Don, but this time his brother didn't look disappointed, just gently chiding; and he followed the comment with a smile, and a twinkle in his eyes. Charlie knew in his heart it was just a vision, but he ached so desperately with the need to see him, and it looked so real…

"I'm trying," Charlie whispered. He choked back the sobs, took a deep, unsteady breath, and straightened himself in the chair. "It's just really hard."

"I know," said the vision, his face softening. "I know, Buddy. You need to hang in there, though, okay? We're coming."

"Okay," replied Charlie, closing his eyes against a renewed sting of tears. The vision wavered and faded, and left him alone in the darkness.

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Wednesday morning, Don sat in the conference room, waiting impatiently for the meeting to begin. Charlie had been gone for roughly sixty hours, since Sunday night, and they seemed further than ever from finding out anything about his abductor. They'd spent Tuesday chasing down leads for white panel vans, along with extra manpower that had been assigned from LAPD – none of which had yielded anything. Don could no longer go anywhere without a press escort – the media was in a frenzy, especially when word had gotten out that the killer had taken the lead agent's brother. He had decided to stay away from both his father's house and Robin's apartment, because the infernal press would follow him there. That decision had resulted in tortured sleepless nights alone at his apartment; even when he did sleep; he fought horrendous nightmares, featuring the victims, Charlie centermost among them, staring at him with accusing eyes. He was strung out, walking a thin edge.

Wright had been pulled into several meetings with the mayor and city government officials, along with his own bosses in the FBI, and came out of each of them looking more dour. As the crowning frustration, he had finally pulled Don aside and told him that although he was still on the case, he was no longer allowed in the field. Wright had cited safety reasons, saying that the press following him would create hazards, but Don had the suspicion there was more to it than Wright provided. There were two options, Don thought to himself – either Wright and his bosses were doing this for his own good, trying to protect him from the fate that Mike Shire had suffered, or they figured him to be distracted by the closeness of the victim, incapable of making quick decisions if needed, and possibly a danger to his coworkers. Or both.

Either way, Don wasn't happy with the decision. Things weren't progressing fast enough – if he could be everywhere at once he would be – pushing, prodding, trying to get already tired team members and officers to _move_. He'd already worn out his welcome with LAPD and the crime labs, and although his team had been patient with him, he knew they were trying to humor him. They were already working nearly round the clock, and Don's prodding was redundant. He knew he was being irascible, hell, he was being an ass most of the time, but damn it, it was Charlie. Every minute he was gone, Don was sure, was another minute of hell that Charlie had to endure. Another minute closer to becoming a murder victim himself.

Don tapped impatiently on the table as the team filed in. David, Liz, and Megan, followed by Colby, Wright, and Jill Cash. Mike Shire was still in the psych ward, and although Jill, who had been visiting him, didn't say too much, Don knew Mike's condition wasn't good. Larry and Amita slipped in quietly, unobtrusively, there to offer support. They had both made a standing offer to assist with whatever analysis might be needed, although there wasn't much to give them. Don had to admit, in spite of his rude treatment of Amita, it hadn't seemed to deter her; she continued to show up, quietly determined to help.

"Okay, Colby." Don spoke before everyone was seated.

Colby's mouth twisted ruefully. "Nothing on the van. We were late getting a jump on it – by the time we got pictures in front of Meisner and figured out it was a panel van, it had been a couple of hours. Just to be sure, I'd had Amita run a program to look for probable locations based on the fact that we figured he was leaving town, and put in the time factor. We had those areas on the lookout during the proper timeframes, but came up empty."

"What does that mean?" Don demanded. "Does it mean he didn't leave L.A?"

Colby shot a glance toward Amita, as if for confirmation, and shook his head. "It just means he didn't go through those areas when we expected him to. He might have taken back roads or changed his course one or more times, maybe changed his vehicle. Any leads we followed up in the L.A. area yesterday came back negative."

Don's gaze swiveled to David. "Crime lab report?"

"We got some preliminary labs back from the warehouse," replied David, as he glanced at the sheets in his lap. "Three blood types consistent with female victims, one male. They're running DNA, but the types match up with Joanie Shire, Cookie Myers, Amber Peterson, and Charlie."

Don frowned, his gut twisting. "Charlie?"

David hastened to reassure him. "There wasn't much – a few drops near the chair where we saw him in the video. It was mixed with saliva – maybe from a cut inside his mouth."

Don was silent for a moment, processing that. It meant most likely, his brother had been hit somehow – he tore his mind away from the thought, trying not to think of the beating of Cookie Myers he'd seen on the video tape. "Anything else?" _Please tell me there's something else._

"I talked to the sheriff up in Banner, Wyoming," said Liz. "He sent some pictures. It sounds like our perp, all right. The cutting patterns, the strips of skin, were identical to the other victims." She rose and moved over to the computer keyboard, drawing up a map of Wyoming and the surrounding states. "We know he went on to Seattle from there, probably took Highway 25 north to 90. The question is; where did he come from?"

"The nearest big city is Denver," said Megan, looking at the map.

"Highways 80 and 70, both big interstates, run through there, along with 25, which comes up from the south," said Don, thoughtfully, as he looked at the map. "Chances are good that no matter where in the country he started, he was in Denver at some point." He looked at Colby. "Put in a call to the Denver office; see if they had any reports of similar crimes, maybe something on a smaller scale."

Colby rose and began to move, but halted with his eyes on the door, and Don turned to see Marcy in the doorway. "Agent Eppes, I've got Albuquerque on the line. They've got another victim." She indicated the phone on the conference room table with a nod of her head. "Line one."

Don snatched up the receiver, aware that every eye in the room was on him. Another victim – it couldn't be Charlie, it couldn't be. He tried to ignore the awful feeling in his gut, and hit the button for speaker. "Eppes."

A voice emanated from the phone. "Hey, Don, this is Jack Martinez. I heard about what's happened – I'm sorry. I'm calling because I think we've got something for you guys – we found a woman this morning, assaulted and cut like the victims you've been seeing. With her, was a note for you."

"For me?" Don frowned, looking at Jill and Megan, trying guiltily to squelch the feeling of relief that came with the knowledge that the victim wasn't Charlie. It didn't fit the pattern, though - if the killer had been keeping to his M.O., he should have contacted the next SAC first, he thought to himself.

"Yeah. It read, '_Agent Eppes – another bird for you. Carrion crow. Can you keep up?_'

Don's frown deepened as he spoke into the phone. "Listen, Jack, we're gonna head down there. Can you hold the scene?"

Jack sounded regretful. "The scene, yeah, but we had to move the vic. He left her out in the desert. I'll be waiting for you."

"Okay, give us a couple hours." Don disconnected, and looked at his profilers.

"He's breaking pattern," said Jill. "If he'd followed the same plan, he would have studied the next SAC for a period of time, and sent him notes prior to the murders, not leaving them afterward."

"It almost sounds like the first victim," said Liz thoughtfully. "He left a note after the fact with her too."

Megan nodded. "He's getting more careless, maybe more desperate. I think his needs for satisfaction are increasing – he couldn't wait to set things up properly – he went directly to another victim."

"What does this mean for Charlie?" asked Don. He kept his face carefully neutral, aware of Wright, sitting in the corner, observing their conversation.

Megan and Jill exchanged a glance, as if figuring out which of them had drawn the short straw, and Megan answered. "I'm not sure. The fact that Charlie hasn't – surfaced – is a good thing. It means he's still being held, and probably will be until the killer has a chance to set up another law enforcement official, to arrange another handoff. It seems as though the perp is still trying to stick to that part of his plan."

Wright was frowning. "Something's not right with this, though. The man went three weeks between Seattle and L.A. without killing. How could he hold off so long then, and not now?"

Jill cleared her throat. "The pathologist's report said Joanie Shire was undoubtedly beaten and raped several times – he estimated some of the injuries were over two weeks old. He may have used her to assuage his aggression during that three-week period." At Don's stricken expression, she hastened to add, "The fact that he has a new victim may be a good thing – it may mean he's not using Charlie that way. If he's reluctant to assault a man, he may have been forced to find another outlet."

'_Or his urges may simply be escalating beyond his control,_' thought Megan. She wasn't about to voice that thought in front of Don, however, and she gave Jill an approving nod. There was a look in the other profiler's eyes that made her realize Jill was not being naïve; she knew exactly what Megan was thinking, and had been wise enough not to say it herself. Of course, thought Megan, no one would be more sensitive to trying to take the burden off their SAC than Jill Cash. She'd seen firsthand what it had done to hers.

"All right, then," said Wright, briskly. "You can arrange for the jet – you need to get down there as soon as possible. Agent Eppes, I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

The group rose and shuffled out, and Wright stood and crossed the room, as Don turned to face him. "I'm thinking you should stay here, Don."

"And I'm thinking not," replied Don. His tone was even, pleasant almost, but his eyes and the line of his jaw hardened stubbornly. "I can follow the rules down there as well as here – I'll stay out of the field. In fact, I shouldn't have the press problem down there that I have here, so being out in the field probably won't be a concern. I'd like to see the drop site, but after that I'll stay in the office. I know the area – it makes sense for me to see it firsthand."

Wright eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Eppes seemed collected, was saying all the right things. He really had no reason to doubt him. "All right," he said grudgingly. "The director won't be happy with me, but you can go. Just know that if I get one bad report from anyone, your ass is back on that plane."

Don's lips quirked in a faint semblance of a smile. "Don't worry, sir. I'll behave."

He turned and walked out the door, and Wright's eyes followed him all the way across the bullpen.

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End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Okay, you're going to make me put my money where my mouth is - here is the second chapter in less than twelve hours. Just to clarify, my comment about understanding what I wrote was not directed at your cognitive abilities, dear readers, it was directed at my ability to write something understandable. Writing without a beta is liberating and a good exercise, but I find I second-guess myself more. When you have a story in your head, its easy to make assumptions about things your reader doesn't know, and to leave things out. Your comments help me figure that out - thanks!_

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 20**

Ryan Morgan had left the hooker's body all the way on the other side of Albuquerque, almost halfway to Flagstaff. He'd driven back, stopping for a big greasy breakfast at an all night diner, wrapping the toast in a napkin almost as an afterthought. He made one more stop, to pick up a prepaid express mail envelope, and arrived back at the hotel as the sun was coming up. He'd entered quietly and surveyed his captive, passed out in the chair, finally asleep.

Morgan smiled as he looked at him, and snapped a couple of pictures with his digital camera. He was back in control now, he could look at him, could probably even touch him, without needing to cut. As if to prove it to himself, he strolled over and squatted next to the young man, running his eyes over his body, still clad only in boxers. Eppes was built like a dancer, compact, almost slender, with wiry muscles. He would be a pleasure to cut, Morgan knew, when the time finally came. Male skin was thicker, contained more collagen than female skin, and he speculated on what it would feel like to cut it into strips, to tease the dermis away from the muscle underneath it. He trailed a finger down a bicep, and smiled as the young man jerked awake in the chair. "Something wrong, professor?" he murmured. Still smiling, he set down the camera and the napkin and ran both hands lightly over Charlie's torso, lingering on his chest. He felt the young man tense, to the point of trembling.

"Don't." Charlie's voice was low and tentative, but the word itself was peremptory. The young man had to know he was taking a big risk by uttering it, but did anyway; and it gave Ryan a sense for how truly uncomfortable his captive was with his touch.

The thought made him smile, and he dropped his hands, picked up the camera and stood, stepping back to take another quick photo, and then moved around behind Charlie and untied the bonds holding his torso to the chair, freeing his upper arms. He left his feet tied to the legs, and his hands bound in front of him, and then tossed the napkin with the toast in his lap. "Eat," he commanded.

He stepped into the bathroom. Charlie could hear water running as he stared at the pieces of toasted bread in his lap, and Morgan came out bearing a cup, which he set beside Charlie on a small side table. "Hurry up," Morgan told him. "We're leaving."

Charlie shut his eyes for just a second as Morgan stepped away, trying to calm his pounding heart. The lack of food and water, the physical abuse, and the mental stress were taking their toll – he felt lightheaded, it was difficult to think coherently. In spite of that, he returned doggedly to the notion that he had to do what he could to ensure his own survival. He reached awkwardly with his bound hands and took the cup of water, draining it. Morgan noticed, and grabbed the cup, stepping back into the bathroom for another refill.

Charlie picked up a piece of toast, and as Morgan came back out with more water and met his eye, he took a bite quickly, trying to appease his captor. The toast was cold, hard, and the congealed synthetic spread that was on it made his stomach turn an odd somersault as the food hit it – the stress and starvation itself had sapped his appetite, but his body was telling him that he needed this. He needed to keep up his strength; each bite was a concerted step toward survival.

He finished as Morgan completed his loading of the van, except for a laptop computer and a printer, which still sat on a side table. Morgan stepped over and untied his feet. "Stand up."

The man's statements were short, although he seemed in a good mood. He never gave away his intentions by talking too much; that was certain. Charlie swayed dizzily as he stood, his hands still bound, and Morgan had to walk him to the bathroom. "Use the toilet," he commanded, then turned and left the small room. Charlie staggered to the commode, complying as quickly as he could with bound hands, hoping he didn't pass out in the middle of it. He shot a nervous look out the open door, where he could see Morgan running his printer in the bedroom. Finished, he made the sink, caught a quick glimpse of a pale face marked with bruises in the mirror, and was awkwardly trying to wash when Morgan entered again. As he finished, the man grabbed him by the arm. "Out here. Move."

The killer pushed him out of the bathroom and over to a bed, yanked him around, and gave a shove, and Charlie fell backwards, without a struggle. He had no fight left, and he looked away, feeling oddly detached, as Morgan prepared a syringe. At least when he was out, he didn't have to feel, to think. He closed his eyes, and could almost hear Don whisper, '_backbone…_'

'_I can't fight him_,' Charlie thought, but he swallowed hard. Don would expect him at least to try. He laid still, his eyes closed, until he sensed Morgan bending over him, and then suddenly drew his legs in and kicked, his feet making contact with Morgan's thighs. He opened his eyes to see Morgan staggering backward, and he was up and off the bed, reaching for the door to the room, as the killer hit the bathroom doorframe and went down hard on his backside. It took Charlie a second longer to open the door than it normally would with his hands bound together, but he managed to jerk it open and dashed out onto the concrete walk, squinting in the morning sun, desperately looking for another sign of life as he stumbled away from the door.

He saw the road winding among other cottages, and behind them the backside of a one-story hotel, but there were no other cars, and he could feel desperation rising inside as he ran, awkward and limping as his bare feet encountered rocks on the rough pavement. He only got a few yards before he was grabbed from behind; Morgan hooked an arm through one of his, and Charlie's momentum swung him around like a skater playing 'snap the whip.' He stumbled; sagging to his knees, and drew in a breath to yell, but it was cut off as Morgan's fist hit his jaw. He went down completely, head reeling, and Morgan tightened his grip, easing him to the pavement. Charlie was dimly aware of a face hovering over him, and then a pinch in his arm. A hand came down roughly over his mouth to stifle any further cries as the sedative began to take effect, but it was hardly necessary – there was no one around to hear him.

He dimly felt himself being hoisted over a shoulder and then being dumped on his back in the van, no more animate than a sack of potatoes. The last thing he remembered was the hair raising on the back of his neck, as fingertips ran lightly over his chest.

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Don wiped sweat off his brow. The New Mexico desert was sweltering, and sun pounded down with a fury that seemed menacing, instead of enjoyable. He glanced around at the landscape, taking in the roadway, which was not too far off the highway, and the rocks around them, as he and his team strode toward the group of crime techs and Albuquerque law enforcement officials. A man walked forward to meet him; his hand outstretched, and clasped Don's hand. "Don. Good to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances."

Don nodded, on the surface, all business. "Jack, this is the team from the L.A. office – Colby Granger, David Sinclair, Megan Reeves, and Liz Warner. We also have Jill Cash, profiler from the Seattle office." He eyed his team as they stepped forward to shake the man's hand. "This is Jack Martinez, SAC of the Albuquerque office – we worked together when I was here."

Don's eyes traveled to the bloodstained towels and plastic sheeting on the ground in front of them. He looked back toward the highway – the killer had left the body on a side road, one that probably saw little traffic, but not too far off the interstate. "He wanted her to be found, but not too quickly," he said.

Martinez, nodded. "That's what we thought. If he'd wanted her to be found immediately, he would have put her closer to the highway, maybe right beside it. We got lucky – border patrol runs some of these back roads at random every week, and this one was picked this morning. The coroner's initial estimate was that she'd been dead only a few hours." He handed Don a piece of paper. "This was the note."

Don glanced at it, reading silently.

_Agent Eppes_

_Another bird for you. Carrion crow. Can you keep up?_

He handed it to Megan, and she held it so Jill could read it also. "Hand lettered, block printing," murmured Jill. "That's a first. He usually types his messages."

"Another indicator that this was impulsive," said Megan. "Carrion crow…"

Colby looked up at Martinez, his blue eyes narrowed against the sun. "What did the vic look like?"

"Caucasian, dark hair and eyes, medium build; late twenties. She was a prostitute. I've got some of my team canvassing the streets, looking for anyone who might have gotten a description of who picked her up."

"'Crow' would be an indicator of her hair and eye color," said Megan reflectively. "'Carrion' might be a reference to her occupation – it implies some disdain on his part. This vic had little significance for him, other than to fulfill a physical need."

"Someone must have seen him pick her up," said David. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

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Alan stared at the dining room table, and sighed. The crime lab had been through the house and had been long gone before he'd returned from Chicago. Don had told him they had gone through Charlie's papers and taken whatever they could find that was pertinent to the case, and that it was all right to collect the rest of his things and his computer case, and clear off the table. Alan knew, however, that working at the table was the last thing Charlie had been doing before he was kidnapped – he clearly remembered that last sight of his son, bent over his laptop, as he'd left for the airport. The thought that those were the last items he'd touched made Alan loathe to put them away. The table looked as it often did – full of Charlie's clutter. He had the unreasonable sense that the mess was somehow waiting for its owner to return, to breeze through the door with his loping stride and a smile, and to clear it away seemed to finalize the situation, to admit he was gone.

The terror, the horror of the situation had made him feel his years. He couldn't seem to think straight, couldn't manage to perform the simplest tasks without getting distracted, and felt drained when he was done. He had no idea how Don was able to handle it – in fact, he feared that deep down inside, his oldest son _wasn't_ handling it. He had heard about Mike Shire, the other SAC, and was terrified that if the outcome of this was bad, he wouldn't only lose his youngest son, he'd lose his oldest too. Somehow, they had to find Charlie, or life as they knew it would cease to exist.

He wondered, as he did every other minute, where Charlie was, and how he was. He'd read of notorious serial killers – who hadn't? - but always from a distance, from an abstract perspective. Don's work brought them closer than he'd liked, but the victims weren't people they knew. Even then, it was difficult to ponder what created such monsters, what drove them, and facing that malevolence firsthand gave him no further insight; instead, it made the evil more bewildering. As always, when he thought of Charlie, he offered a silent prayer for God to give his boy strength, a prayer uttered so often it had worn a rut in his mind.

Forcing himself to move, he stepped forward to the table and opened the computer case, which was lying there unzipped. He'd just pick up the few files left on the table, he decided, put them inside, and set the case in the corner, waiting for Charlie to return. He could manage that much. The contents from one of the files were peeking out of the open edge; they looked like pictures, and he flipped the folder open abstractedly. The people in the first picture looked as though they were at a party, and a tendril of curiosity poked through the fog in his mind, as he tried to remember what party his son might have attended recently. As he got a closer look and recognized Amita in the crowd, and then at the ethnicity of the others in the picture, he realized the pictures must have been taken in Delhi. His heart twisted a little as he thought of his son and Amita, the two of them together – they'd been so content together, life had been relatively peaceful, before all of this. It was nice of her, he thought, to send Charlie pictures.

He leafed through them, thinking absently how happy Amita looked. She still hadn't called, and that was another point that disturbed him. As he reached the third picture, noticing a certain young man who always seemed to be next to her, he frowned a little, but it was the last picture that brought him up short, and tore a hole through his heart. "Oh," he whispered, as he looked at the shot of Amita, locked in an embrace with the same young man. "Oh, Charlie."

He set the picture down and made his way numbly to the nearest armchair, sinking into it, just like the shards of his breaking heart sinking into his shoes.

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End Chapter 20

_A/N: Had to whump Alan a little too, even if it was only psychological. Actually, much of the whumping for everyone in this story is psychological - the killer is so evil, so toxic, he destroys not only bodies, but minds. However, the physical whumping for Charlie increases in Denver, (and also for Don)._


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Three within 24 hours. How's that?_

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 21**

The ride to Denver from Albuquerque would normally take about six and a half hours. It took Ryan Morgan over ten.

He'd started out heading north on back roads, stopping first to mail his pictures of Charlie to the Albuquerque FBI office, in care of Agent Eppes. Highway 528 to 550 to 4 to 502 to 68 - winding his way through the Native American reservations north of town. He was clear-headed now, and could plan, although he was already starting to feel the need again. It was low at this point, just a simmer, but it was under control and not entirely unwelcome - it gave an edge to his thoughts. He was firing on all cylinders now, reassessing the situation as he drove. He would carry out his plan as he originally intended in Denver, which included targeting the Denver SAC, John McKelvey, and selecting a first victim associated with him. Agent Allison Cook, the focus of all of this, would be the second victim, and at that point, he would have his revenge. After that, he could either try for someone significant to McKelvey, for appearance's sake, or, if the agent had all of the people close to him too tightly guarded, Morgan could just be done with it. He'd finish Dr. Eppes off- the professor would be the icing on the cake, Morgan thought with a smile - and move on to another town, to continue his work.

For there was no question now, he would have to continue. It had become a part of him – the need to cut undeniable. The only difference would be that he would no longer need to publicize his victims. He could take them, cut them, and dispose of the bodies discreetly. It would remove a certain portion of his fun – the joy he got from mentally torturing the lead FBI agents – but it would also remove a large portion of risk. There would be no need any longer for the charade – Allison would be dead, her bastard father at the hospital in mourning. Morgan would have deflected any possible suspicion from himself to the unknown Flower Killer, and would be free to pursue his passion, under the radar.

He'd almost done that with the hooker – left her where no one would find her. He'd decided at the last minute that she would make a nice red herring – something to distract Agent Eppes and his team, while Morgan moved on to Denver. If he needed women in the next week or two, while he was setting up McKelvey, he would take them and dispose of them quietly. No one would know he was in Denver until he decided to let them know, with the first clue that he sent to McKelvey.

At the junction of Highways 68 and 64, at the small reservation town of Taos, he stopped to pick up more of that first clue. The route was dotted with souvenir shops, filled with western and Native American bric-a-brac. Most of them featured polished stones of various colors, some semiprecious, all of them inexpensive. He bought a fair amount at each of them, until he had a sizable boxful – not buying too much at any one shop, to avoid arousing suspicion.

It was while he was in Taos that he spied the small auto shop. It had occurred to him the white van might have been seen and remembered when he picked up the hooker. As he drove through Taos on his way out, he noticed the sign on the shop, which offered custom paint jobs, and decided to stop and inquire. It was a small place, the kind that appeared legit but did illegal chop shop work on the side; the kind that was fast and where questions were kept to a minimum. It was run by a young heavy-set Native American with an attitude, sharp eyes, and a group of Mexican immigrants for employees.

Morgan knew Eppes would be out for several hours yet and he was out of sight, covered with a sheet in the back of the van, which was windowless except for the front cab. The price was reasonable, and the owner estimated two hours to turn the van from white to blue. It wouldn't be factory-quality paint, but it was fast drying, and good enough for a delivery van. It was worth it, Morgan had decided, and he stood by and watched while they worked, to make sure they didn't open the vehicle. It had the added effect of making them work faster; they didn't care to be watched. Two hours later, cash exchanged hands and Morgan was the owner of a blue van, and a new set of contraband plates.

It had added two hours to his trip, and his meandering route and stops at the souvenir shops had added another two. He joined up with Highway 25 again at Raton, and had to stop between Ludlow and Aguilar to re-sedate his captive. Finally, that evening, ten and a half hours after he'd started out that morning, he pulled into Denver. He headed for the west side of town, toward a spot on the outskirts. It was a place he knew well; it was where it had all begun.

It had been a long drive, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the bruise he'd sustained on his lower back when he'd hit the bathroom doorframe that morning. Eppes would pay for that, he thought, and the notion gave him a flicker of anticipation. Eppes would most definitely pay for that.

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Jill Cash took a sip of her iced tea, and watched the man across the table. They had gone out to eat that night – more out of necessity than anything else; no one appeared to be very hungry. She was beginning to understand that Charlie had a special place in the hearts of the L.A. team, and meant a good deal more to them than the fact that he was a consultant, or even the brother of their SAC. She had to admit, she'd been immediately attracted to him herself. It was Charlie's brother, though, who was concerning her now as she scanned the group.

It seemed like déjà vu; like Mike Shire all over again. Eppes had the same tight expression on his face, as if he was trying mightily to hold in the tension and if he relaxed just a bit, it would all come spilling out. He was toying with his food, and looked tired and grim. He looked up and caught her eye, and then looked away, reaching for his water.

--

Don used his water glass as an excuse to avert his gaze from Jill Cash; like Megan, she seemed to have eyes that could see right through a person. He wondered if that attribute was something they'd possessed before they'd gone into profiling, or developed because of it. Maybe both.

Earlier that day, they'd gone into the Albuquerque office after viewing the site. SAC Jack Martinez had set several things in motion, putting out an APB for the van, organizing a search for witnesses who might have seen the victim being picked up, collecting preliminary reports from the crime lab. In the middle of the activity, an express mail envelope had arrived, addressed to Don.

He'd opened it with unsteady hands, unaware of how similar that telltale tremor was to Mike Shire's, only days before. In the envelope were pictures of Charlie, bound to a chair, dressed only in boxers. Jill Cash had uttered a low exclamation of distress at the sight, and Don's heart had dropped. In one picture, Charlie was obviously out, sleeping or unconscious, his head drooping so low they couldn't see his features under the mop of curly hair. In the other, he was awake, and looking into the lens of the camera, his expression a mixture of tension, fear, and despair. He was bruised, and appeared tired and on the thin side, but at least he was alive when the shots had been taken. The chair was sitting on some kind of dark colored carpet, and the wall behind it was painted white. It could have been anywhere.

Don had stared at the photos with a bleak expression, and then looked again, a double take, turning even paler. He glanced around the group, wondering if anyone else had noticed, but when no one said anything, he looked back, hoping he'd been mistaken.

He'd looked at the picture again, and his gut threatened to bring up what little was in it. He was sure – Charlie's chest was bare. His brother didn't go around without a shirt too often, but he'd shed it on occasion, enough to for Don to know that there was normally hair on that part of his anatomy. The killer must have shaved it or forced Charlie to do it. Either way, it was an indication that in spite of the recent female victim, the man's sick mind was on his brother, that he'd possibly been touching him, or worse, and Don felt a sudden surge of nausea. He had risen suddenly and stumbled away, out of the conference room, heading for the restroom – thank God, it was Albuquerque, and he remembered where it was. He made it inside, just barely, and lost the contents of his stomach in the toilet – the sandwich he managed to choke down at lunch had just become a lost cause.

He had stood, coughing, and heard the soft swoosh of the door, and then felt a solid hand on his shoulder, briefly, a touch of reassurance. Colby, asking if he was okay.

Don had taken a swipe at watery eyes and cleared his throat, muttering that it must have been something he'd eaten. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to talk about what he'd just realized. Instead, he stepped over to the sink, avoiding Colby's eyes, and splashed some cold water on his face, saying he'd be out in a minute.

--

Now at dinner, hours later, he could feel the nausea rising again as he thought of the pictures, and he pushed his chair back abruptly. "I'll be back in a minute," he muttered, and turned and made for the restaurant entrance; head swiveled away from them, but keenly cognizant of the others' eyes on him.

Outside, he took a deep breath of dry air, still warm even though it was evening. The sidewalk and the stucco from the building radiated heat – temperatures dropped quite a bit in the desert at night, but in the summer they were so high to begin with, the drop only brought them to a barely bearable level. Yucca plants dotted the rock bed that served as landscaping; their spiky silhouettes sharp in the lights from the parking lot. He heard the door open and shut behind him, but he didn't turn. Solitary female footsteps. '_Megan,_' he guessed, and shot a surprised glance over his shoulder as Jill Cash spoke.

"You okay?"

He turned away again and ran a hand over his face, with a short derisive snort. "Define 'okay.'"

She was silent for a moment; then said, "You need to talk about it, you know. You can't hold it all in. That's what Mike did, and you can see where it got him."

It was Don's turn to be silent - for so long, that she thought he wasn't going to reply, and she was about to turn around and go back inside, when he said, "His chest was bare - in the pictures – it was bare."

She frowned. "You mean he wasn't wearing a shirt."

He turned and looked at her, agony in his eyes. "I mean, the killer – somebody – removed the hair from his chest. What does that mean?"

She felt an icy sensation settle in the pit of her stomach, but she tried to keep her face expressionless. "I don't know."

Don continued, his voice impatient. "Did _he_ remove it? Did he make Charlie do it? What does it mean? Why would he do that?"

"It obviously is trespassing on something we'd normally consider personal," said Jill slowly. "As to why – we can only guess."

Don dropped his eyes, gazing blankly at the pavement. "So to answer your first question – no, I'm not okay." He raised his head, his dark eyes sharp with repressed emotion. "I'm not okay that this bastard has my brother, I'm not okay with the fact that I'm getting nowhere with this case, I'm not okay that we have no leads – no idea who or where this son of a bitch is. I'm not okay with any of this." He stepped around her and strode back toward the restaurant entrance, and she silently watched him go.

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'_Mom?'_ _Charlie flung a quick look over his shoulder, but his mother was on the other side of the park, chatting with a neighbor – within sight, but well out of earshot. He jerked his head around to face forward, and took a nervous step back from the tree line, and the man advancing out of it. _

"_Come here, son," he said kindly, but his eyes glinted with a look that registered uneasily on Charlie's eight-year-old subconscious. The man had heard Charlie's tentative call, and he looked in the direction of his glance, assuring himself there was no one within the boy's vocal range. "That's a metal detector you've got there, isn't it, boy? If you come into the woods a little ways, I can show you where you can find a bunch of coins."_

"_That's okay," Charlie stammered, clutching the device to his chest. "My mom said I'm s'posed to stay where she can see me." She hadn't said that - he was a little too old for that, but the man was making him apprehensive, and he knew he shouldn't be going anywhere with a stranger._

_The man took another step closer. "Think about how surprised she'll be when you show her all the money you found." He stopped short suddenly; his eyes traveled over Charlie's shoulder, and at the same time, Charlie heard approaching footsteps, and turned to see Donnie bounding towards them. He pulled up next to Charlie; his cheeks flushed from the run, and put an arm around his younger brother, his thirteen-year-old face inscrutable. He looked somehow older than his years with his eyes narrowed, assessing the man in front of them. When Charlie turned back to look at the man, he was disappearing into the trees, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief._

"Donnie." Charlie took a deep breath as his eyes fluttered open, and he blinked, the look of relief fading into confusion, as he took in his surroundings. There was no park, no Don – only a large room with tiled floor and walls, with rusting metal sinks, and hooks hanging from the ceiling. There was a man there, though, and Charlie's heart lurched with renewed fear as he spied his captor. His wrists and shoulders ached, his body felt strangely heavy, and he realized that he was hanging by bound hands from one of the hooks, his feet just barely off the floor. Judging from the darkness outside and the pallid glow of two bare bulbs in the ceiling, it was nighttime, wherever they were. It had to be somewhere remote; the dusty sash windows were cracked open; and Charlie could catch scents of pine mingled with the musty smell in the room. The faint buzz of a generator wafted through the window.

Ryan Morgan smiled, and strolled forward, casually picking up his baton from the table, and swinging it as he walked. "Your brother's not here," he said softly. "Too bad for you." He stepped closer, and the light in his eyes reminded Charlie of the man in his dream, dredged up from his subconscious memories. "You thought you were pretty smart this morning, with your little maneuver. You realize; I haven't forgotten. You _will_ pay for that." He swung the baton suddenly, and it smacked sharply on Charlie's bare ribcage.

Charlie bit back hard on a cry of pain, trying to breath through it. Morgan traced a lazy finger down his chest, and Charlie willed himself to stay still, to avoid cringing at the touch. _Have some backbone, stay strong…_

"You need to understand; I will not tolerate disobedience." Morgan moved slowly around behind him, then suddenly reached up and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking Charlie's head back. Charlie felt the man's face against his, his cheek against Charlie's, and this time, he couldn't suppress a shudder.

Morgan whispered in his ear. "The only question is, how will I make you pay?" He suddenly released Charlie's hair, stepped back around to the front of him and pushed hard, and Charlie felt the hook slide in its track in the ceiling, his body racing backwards until he hit a wall with a thump. He was in a small, now apparently deserted meatpacking company, he realized suddenly, his gut lurching along with his body as he smacked into the wall. The hooks were undoubtedly what carcasses had been hung on. That morbid thought didn't have time to register before the killer was again in front of him. He pushed Charlie against the wall with his body, and Charlie gasped and turned his head away from the face so close to his, trying to quell the nausea and terror that rose in him as the larger man pressed into him, the powerful body straining against his. The killer whispered again, his lips brushing Charlie's ear. "You didn't answer me, Charlie. How should I make you pay?"

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End Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 22**

Liz eased onto a bar stool next to the solitary figure, hunched over his drink. "Buy you a beer, Granger?" she asked, and Colby glanced up at her.

He lifted his bottle. "Got one, thanks. I'll get you something, though." He raised his hand and signaled the bartender. "What do you want?"

"Beer's good." She looked at the bartender and ordered it light, in a bottle, then turned back to Colby. It was about two hours after they'd returned to the hotel from dinner, and she wondered if he'd been there the whole time. She suspected so – she'd tried his room more than once. "Drinking by yourself?"

"I was, for a minute or two," he said. "David was here – he went back to the room." He tried not to stare into her exotic, almond-shaped eyes, and took a casual sip of his beer.

"Ever been to Albuquerque before?"

"Nah. You?"

"Yeah, once a long time ago." The bartender set Liz's bottle down, and she took a drink. "So you're here, pondering the meaning of life."

His mouth twisted. "More like the meaning of this case. I can't get a grip on this guy. It seems like he keeps one jump out in front of us – he leaves behind a string of clues, but none of them are any good – by the time we figure them out, he's off to something or somewhere else."

Liz nodded. "Yeah – he keeps changing the ground rules. Without knowing what's driving him, it's pretty hard to predict what he'll do next." She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, she lowered her voice. "I'm worried about Don. He's taking this pretty hard. It's all just – I can't even describe it. And it makes me sick, every time I think about Charlie."

Colby stared at his beer bottle, and his jaw worked. "I'll tell you one thing; if I come face to face with the guy, I hope someone's around to stop me, or I'm gonna rip his head off."

She snorted softly. "Not if Don beats you to it."

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Don sat on the edge of his bed, the hotel room dark except for the lamp on the bedside table next to him. It was five in the morning, but he was unable to sleep, and had finally gotten up, showered and dressed. He turned the card face up in his hands again, and stared at the picture. Charlie's driver's license – one of the first things they'd looked for at the Craftsman after Charlie's abduction was his wallet, checking to see if the killer had taken any credit cards, anything they could trace. Don had found it up on his bother's nightstand, intact, and the little picture on the card had called out to him somehow.

His brother had never been the epitome of cool, and was grinning cheerfully into the DMV camera, oblivious to the fact that he didn't need to smile for the photo. That was Charlie, enthusiastic about everything he did – a sometimes geeky, sometimes frustrating, and sometimes endearing quality. How Don felt about that unbridled enthusiasm on any particular day had a lot to do with the context; sometimes he'd shake his head with amused affection, and sometimes it was downright annoying. He'd never thought about it much, but now that it was gone – that brightness; that sense of optimism – he realized how much he'd relied on it. It had anchored him, and buoyed him, at the same time.

Not that Charlie was always happy – he had his down moments; and those times had prompted Alan to name him a professional brooder. Whatever Charlie's mood, however, it was always intense. Don had always wondered if that was a by-product of that magnificent brain – was it hypersensitive to emotions, as well as to cold fact? One thing he knew – although his brother had gotten stronger in the years they'd been working together, Charlie was still not what anyone would call tough. In the past, Charlie had exhibited a disconcerting tendency to do what Don termed "go off the deep end," and withdraw into disturbing retreats. Although he wouldn't admit it, it had always scared the hell out of Don – he'd wondered each time it happened if Charlie was going to stay there permanently, afraid that they wouldn't be able to reclaim him, afraid that one of these days, his brother would lock himself up in that world and never come out again. That fear was with him now.

"Come on, Charlie, come on," he whispered. "Be strong, Buddy. You need to hang in there…'

He looked again at the picture, and felt a stab of pure pain, a despair so intense it ached. God, he'd give anything to be able to see that smile again – and he'd never forgive himself if he didn't.

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Charlie woke to agony, and the sound of terrified crying. He was dimly aware that he was lying on his side on the cold tile floor, hands and feet bound, naked. He could remember the beating, which seemed endless and had left him stunned and helpless, swimming in pain. There was a vague memory of hands – touching him; removing what little clothing he had left – more touching… He shuddered, the movement an uncontrollable spasm.

A scream rent the air and he looked automatically toward the sound, although his soul was numb. Early dawn light filtered through a window. He tried to focus, half-heartedly, realizing without emotion that he could only see out of one eye; the other was swollen shut. There was another room at the far end of the one Charlie was in, set off by a thick insulated metal door, which was ajar. Through it, he could see the killer struggling with a young woman, tying her down on a table in the glare of a harsh, bright work light; it was happening again, and Charlie felt the weight of it all, crushing him.

He closed his good eye, and could see Don's face, looking at him with sympathy. '_Come on, Charlie, come on. Be strong, Buddy. You need to hang in there…'_

"I can't," whispered Charlie. He was breaking, slipping back into his mind. No more strength, no more backbone, spinelessly sliding into a sea of abstract equations, visualizations of sub-atomic particles whirling in his mind along with models of synaptic firings, dispersion and absorption rates, extensions of his convergence and cognitive emergence theories, heat transfer models, fluid modeling at orifices and the similarities to the asymptotic properties of gravity around black holes, all of it needing math to describe it – so many possibilities…

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Ryan Morgan wrapped the woman in plastic sheeting, leaving her in what had once been a butchering room and walk-in refrigerator, and staggered out into the main processing area, past Eppes, out of the building to the attached house. He entered, and the smell of dust and echoes of empty rooms greeted him as he made his way to the living room. Unrolling his air mattress and his sleeping bag, he flung himself down, the raging need satisfied for the moment. Dealing with Eppes, instead of calming his desire, had inflamed him, accelerating the need to cut again, and once more, he'd almost deviated from his plan, and cut him right then and there. He'd held off, and instead gone desperately in search of another woman in the middle of the night, driving all the way into Denver to find another hooker; this one seamier than the last. It didn't matter anymore – he knew he was now steeped in sin, and they all cut the same, anyway…

After a few hours sleep, he woke in the late morning, and made his way into the shower. '_Filth,_' his mind scolded him with contempt, '_you are filth, dirty…_' He fumbled desperately for a razor, and stood for a moment, his hand shaking. He wanted, _needed_, to remove the disgusting hair from his face, like he had from Eppes, but he took a deep breath, trying to reclaim rational thinking. His beard and mustache were coming in nicely; he told himself, just as he wanted. He controlled himself and shaved around them, rinsed his face, took a deep breath and smiled, his dazzling white teeth flashing back at him. With new confidence, he turned to the shower. Although the power had been turned off to the buildings by the power company, the old generator that had been put in as backup for the refrigerators still worked; it was enough provide power for the lights and a hot water tank, which Morgan had replaced himself a few years ago. The generator was noisy, but they were in the middle of nowhere; there was no one to hear it. He turned on the hot water. In moments, he would be clean again.

He showered and dressed, put on his wig and inserted the brown contacts, and stepped outside, inhaling a lungful of sweet, pine scented air. The abandoned buildings – the meatpacking plant and attached butcher shop and house - were the only ones on the deserted gravel road, off the highway by almost two miles. It had been a successful small business when he was a teen in the nearby town of Idledale. The town sat well west of Denver on Bear Creek Road, and the people of Idledale and neighboring towns would make the trek to the back road in the middle of the woods that led to the butcher, to buy what they considered superior cuts of meat. Morgan frowned, trying to remember the name of the man who had run it, and glanced back at the buildings looking for a sign. There weren't any, but the sight of the buildings sparked his memory. Jamison; that was it. Jamison Meats. Morgan had driven him out of business.

That hadn't been his intent. At the time, his teenage mentality had considered it a sly prank; he'd captured two stray dogs and four cats, gutted them, and drove out to the butcher at night in his rusty Buick. He'd parked his car off the highway on the gravel road, but not quite as far as the Jamisons', and walked the rest of the way in the darkness with the animals in a plastic bag, depositing some of the gruesome carcasses around the property and some inside the meatpacking area, which in those innocent days, Jamison left unlocked. Morgan didn't stick around, and wasn't entirely sure what happened the next day, but apparently some customers had shown up as soon as the butcher shop opened that morning, and had seen the carcasses outside. One of them had called the health department, who came out to investigate, and found more carcasses in the meatpacking room. Jamison had eventually been cleared of any wrongdoing, but the damage was done – rumors swirled through the surrounding small towns that he sold the meat of dogs and cats along with his beef and pork, and his business was ruined. To add insult to injury, due to the stigma, he had been unable to sell the property.

It had suited Ryan just fine – after the man and his family had moved, he would come out there with more animals for privacy. He'd found during his prank that he'd enjoyed disemboweling animals. He'd told himself it was his desire to be a surgeon that drove his behavior – it was merely curiosity – he was learning surgical technique, anatomy… As he continued, however, he began to cut them alive, and the thrill, the physical gratification, he knew deep inside, weren't right, but by then, he couldn't stop himself. He was still cutting animals as he grew older and started college, on the surface a model student, bright, good looking, personable. He'd had the world at his gifted fingertips until Dr. Randolph Cook had derailed his career, had changed his life. Now he was back in Denver again – he had come full circle, and it was time for revenge.

He turned toward the meatpacking plant. He needed to get rid of the hooker's body; he would take it further down the road, which dead-ended about two miles down. He'd bury her in the woods; he wasn't ready for it to be known he was in Denver. He had work to do yet – he needed to watch SAC John McKelvey, find out who his contacts were, and pick out his first victim. He needed to find a way to plant the assorted stones he'd collected when he was ready to announce his presence. There was much to do…

A sound in the underbrush made him turn, and he spied a dog, of all creatures, a mutt that looked to be part beagle, part German Shepherd, skulking through the bushes. Out of habit, he called it and took a step toward it, kneeling a little, but it snapped at him, bared its teeth and barked. He straightened and turned away, heading toward the meatpacking building. He didn't need to cut dogs anymore. He had more interesting quarry.

Inside, he glanced at the professor on the floor as he passed him, and gave him a prod with his foot. The young man seemed conscious, but he didn't respond. Instead, he just stared across the floor with a vacant expression, at least with one eye – the other was swollen shut. Morgan paused for a moment, wondering for a brief panicked instant if he was still alive – it would be extremely disappointing if the man died before he had a chance to cut him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw a slow blink, then the rise and fall of the man's chest. He really needed to treat him better, Morgan resolved; he'd pick up some food, get him some water – try to keep him in shape for his final end. It might be good, though, to get another picture of him like this – to send to Agent Eppes, once Morgan made it known he was in Denver. He could just imagine the look on the agent's face. He smiled, and was still smiling, moments later, as he trudged through the door with the hooker's body in his arms.

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End Chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. _

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 23**

Larry paused at the door of Amita's office, taking in her profile as she sat, her head dejectedly resting on her hand, her elbow propped on her desk. Words couldn't begin to describe what he felt himself these days – the knowledge that his closest friend was experiencing possible torture, perhaps imminent death, was something he'd never expected to face. Charlie was more than a just a friend to him, he was his protégé, his colleague, his confidant – a relationship that bordered on familial. What part of family he couldn't say – if Charlie actually were related to him it would be an odd mix, part brother, part son. He cared deeply about Amita too, as a friend and peer, and her despair added to his own murky pit of emotion. He hadn't felt so lost, so out-of-sorts, since he'd returned from space.

He walked in quietly, without knocking, and settled in a chair across from her. Amita could never look really bad, he reflected, even on her worst days, but she did look worse than he'd ever seen her. No makeup, hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail; she looked thin and exhausted, her face drawn. "I was going to ask how you were holding up," he said gently, "but it appears the question is superfluous. Perhaps you should ask Millie for some time."

She gave a short shaky laugh. "I look that bad, huh?"

"It is not outside of the realm of reason that you would need some time to process these horrific events. I'm certain Millie would be more than supportive." At her silence, he regarded her for a moment. "Perhaps you could take the afternoon off. I have no more commitments today. We could stop and check on Alan – I'm sure he could use the distraction."

Her mouth twisted bitterly. "Any distraction but me."

Larry regarded her, and scratched his beard uncertainly. "I fear I didn't follow that."

She sighed deeply, and the sound was filled with pain and frustration. "Don knows – I could tell by his reaction to me. I'm sure Charlie told them both."

"Told them what?"

She grabbed her laptop, and typed vehemently, jabbing at keys impatiently; then turned it toward him, almost defiantly. "That."

Larry peered at the screen, and took in what appeared to be a photograph of Amita kissing another man, on a moonlit balcony. His eyebrows rose, and he stared at her, for the first time in memory at a loss for words.

"Yeah, that's me," she said, her voice dripping with self-contempt. "Go ahead; tell me how awful I am."

Larry began, just barely, to recover his faculties. "I'm sure your self-flagellation is unwarranted – I expect, from your reaction, that there is a logical explanation for this."

Her anger faded as suddenly as it came, and she slumped, deflated, in her chair. "The explanation is too many parties, too much champagne, and an unguarded moment." She looked at him pleadingly. "It was one kiss, a world away, and it didn't mean anything. It was a stupid, stupid mistake – I never meant to hurt Charlie, never in a million years." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I tried to call him, but he wouldn't answer – I never got a chance to explain, and now it's the last thing he'll ever think about me – that I was unfaithful-," Her voice trailed off abruptly as the tears overwhelmed her, and she leaned forward in her chair, rocking slightly as if in pain, her face in her hands.

Larry felt his heart sink. "How do you know Charlie saw this?"

She wiped at her eyes. "Because my meddling cousin sent it to him – the same email – the same picture that's on my screen. She insinuated that I would rather be in India, and told him not to stand in my way. After she sent it, he wouldn't answer my calls. I know he saw it – I'm sure Don did too. Don hates me – it's obvious – the only reason he allowed me at the office was because I was trying to help."

Larry's brow furrowed. "Did you try to explain it to him?"

She uttered a humorless snort of laughter. "As if that would do any good. Even if he agreed to listen, I doubt he'd believe me. He has his mind made up already." Her face crumpled. "I'm sure Charlie had made his up, too." Tears were starting again, streaking down her cheeks, and she looked at Larry with a piteous expression. "I can't handle this – any of it – I'm so scared for him -," She bent over as if in pain, and Larry rose and went to her, stepping behind her chair, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I know," he murmured softly. "We all are." He stood there silently, as the sound of her quiet sobbing filled the room, and his heart broke for both of them.

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Charlie felt movement at his feet and recoiled instinctively, trying to pull away from the hands that were cutting the cords around his ankles. He could feel prickling in his toes as his bonds were stripped away and the blood rushed into his feet, but the sensations seemed far away, overwhelmed by the pain in his body, his overall perception dulled by the physical and mental abuse. He had fallen asleep on the floor of the meatpacking room, and was now struggling to get back to the place where he'd been prior to that – deep in the middle of an analysis that escaped him now, but seemed earth shattering at the time. The return of fear swirled like an incoming tide around his brain, interfering with his concentration. It was the killer – he was back and was now pulling at Charlie's arm. "Get up."

Charlie tried to turn away, shutting his good eye, trying desperately to find his focal point, to shut out his surroundings, but the man was insistent. He grabbed Charlie under the arms and hauled him to his feet, where Charlie stood for just a second or two before his head began to roar and darkness encroached on his field of vision. He started to collapse, but strong hands grabbed him; and the next thing he knew he was moving, there was pressure in his bruised gut – a shoulder, he realized; he was being carried.

Now he was outside, his body bouncing slightly with each step the man took, the ground rushing back and forth as his head moved up and down; he was too weak to hold it steady. He was vaguely aware that it looked like late afternoon or early evening, he could hear wind in the trees and a dog barking, and he turned his head slightly. Pine forest, whirling strangely…

He must have blacked out for just a moment, for the next thing he knew, he was being laid on a folded blanket in an empty room. The killer turned him on his side and cut the bonds on his hands, apparently realizing Charlie wasn't currently a flight risk – he could barely move, unfettered or not. Then the hands were turning him on his back; he tried to resist, aware of his nakedness, knowing he didn't want to look into the man's eyes, but he had no strength. The man turned him easily, and he found himself staring at a darker version of the killer – dark hair, dark beard and mustache, dark eyes – but the eyes were somehow the same – cold, bright with a hint of something manic, a twist of madness, tinged with both repulsion and fascination. It was similar to the look he'd worn the night before, but less intense, apparently controlled, at least for now.

The man pulled a blanket over him, and then moved behind him and knelt. Charlie felt hands under his shoulders, and then the man was lifting him again, leaning him against his body, propping him in a sitting position. Charlie's skin crawled at the contact, and he feebly tried to push away, but the man snaked an arm around his chest. Charlie heard him fumbling with something; then the smell of food hit his nose, making his empty stomach contract sharply. A spoon appeared in front of his face and nudged at his lips. "Eat," Morgan commanded, "or I'll make you pay again."

Nothing further needed to be said; Charlie fought down a surge of nausea and opened his mouth. It was soup, something thick and pureed, bean or pea or lentil – not normally something Charlie cared for, but he was beyond taste, beyond caring. After several spoonfuls, he began to choke; after so much time without food, his stomach rebelled, and the killer relented, and allowed Charlie to lie down again before he brought up the soup. He was out seconds after his head touched the blanket; exhausted by the brief physical exertion, unaware of the bright eyes on him, studying the line of his throat, the wiry muscles in his shoulders, the movement of muscle and ribs in his chest, expanding and contracting with each breath.

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Mike Shire stared at the casket as the minister intoned a final prayer. Wind whipped out of the gray Seattle sky, making his daughter clutch the skirt of her little navy dress. Six years old, and his son, eight, a little soldier, standing straight and proud in his suit, but unable to keep the tears away; he wiped at them now. Six and eight, without a mother – because their father had failed to keep her safe, failed to find her in time. They didn't understand now, and he wondered how old they would be when they did – that their father was a failure, inadequate, a loser who had let a killer have his wife. Would they hate him, he wondered dully? Despise him? Or pity him – '_the poor bastard – bit off more than he could chew with that SAC job.' _

That's what he imagined the rest of the people gathered there were saying about him. Or worse, in the case of Joanie's family – he was sure hate and disgust were mixed with the grief, in that case. He'd been released from the hospital yesterday so he could be in Seattle for the funeral, but the truth was, he was barely functional. He still shook badly, and only the maximum doses of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication kept him from dissolving into a trembling heap. Jill Cash was in Albuquerque, although the rest of his team, God bless them, were gathered around him protectively, but he could see from their shocked faces, their uncertain glances, how bad it was. He was a train wreck, and it showed. He wasn't even considered well enough to watch his children – they would stay with their grandparents, and after the funeral, he was to check into a mental health facility in Seattle. Crawl back into a hole, like the pathetic creature he was.

He felt his heart contract painfully as the minister finished his final prayer. The group turned to go back to the chapel; the act of placing the casket in the grave was not part of this service; it would be done afterward. It didn't seem right, to leave it - her – just sitting there, Mike thought, and he stepped forward on unsteady legs to lay a hand on it, to say a final good-bye. Tears rushed to his eyes, hot, unbidden. "I'm sorry, Joanie," he whispered brokenly, and the words were carried off by the wind. "I'm sorry…"

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Ryan Morgan took a bite of his sandwich and chewed, contemplating the dog from the doorway of the house. The mutt he'd seen earlier was back. He'd thrown him a piece of crust, and the beast was skulking forward, its eyes on Morgan, with quick longing glances at the bread. It was obviously a stray; it was thin, and burrs clung to its coat. Morgan had no real interest in it – he had moved on to bigger things, but it amused him to entice it. He was good bringing them in; winning their trust. If he worked at it, he could get most of them to come within minutes. Experimentally, he leaned forward with a hand out, taking a step toward the dog, but it barked, bared its teeth, snatched the piece of bread from the ground, and backed off growling. Morgan straightened with a shrug and took another bite, as he turned and looked at the prone figure of the professor, lying in the room behind him.

After burying the hooker that morning, he'd come back and showered again, then driven into Denver, parking outside the FBI offices in time for the end of the business day, watching each departing vehicle closely. He knew what McKelvey looked like – the feds, including Allison, had shown up at his apartment with a warrant when he'd been accused of stealing the meds. He still remembered their looks of contempt, of suspicion. McKelvey was around thirty-five, with blonde hair and a mustache – his light head would be easy to spot.

He saw Allison Cook depart first, in her dark sedan. Bitch. She drove right past him, and he got a good look at her lean attractive face, her dark shoulder length hair. He couldn't wait to wipe that smug look off her face, and off McKelvey's too. He hated feds – every last one of them. They thought they were so smart – Shire and Eppes had found out firsthand that they weren't, and Cook and McKelvey would too.

When McKelvey emerged from the parking garage, Morgan pulled out behind him, tailing him back to the suburb where he lived – but not home. Instead, McKelvey stopped at a nearby gym, parked and went inside, carting a duffel bag. Morgan glanced in the rearview mirror and checked his appearance. He looked nothing like his normal self, and the image gave him confidence. He parked his car and followed McKelvey, entering just seconds after him.

Inside, there was a lobby area with a desk and a sign-in; and beyond it was a glass wall, through which he could see people – really fit people – working out. Guys flexing biceps, tight young women in spandex – this was a serious gym, an elite group – not for the overweight or unfit. Muscle-bound snobs, with roving eyes, checking out the other hard bodies. It figured McKelvey would belong here. Morgan couldn't see him - he was apparently in the locker room, but it was the slim blonde at the desk who drew his eye.

He'd stepped forward, smiling. "I was interested in checking the gym out. Do you have information on rates and hours?"

The girl had eyed his arms, the hard muscle, and took in his attractive face. He was sure he passed her scrutiny. She smiled. "Yes, we have some specials going now – have you ever belonged to a gym before?"

"No," he lied. "I've just used free weights at home – I'd probably need a training session on the equipment."

"I can do that," she said, blinking coquettishly. "Did you want to start today?"

"No," he replied, smiling at her, "I have plans tonight. When are you here next?"

She pouted a little, in disappointment. "I'm off this weekend, and not in until Monday," she said. "I'm here that night from 3:00 until we close at 10:00. You can try it out first before you sign up, but I'll give you the rate information."

"Monday would be fine - ," he said, pausing, waiting for her name.

"Marcia," she had said, dimpling. "Marcia Sanders."

He grinned back. "Marcia. Thank you."

He'd left then, just as McKelvey stepped into the workout room. The man never bothered to look through the glass; he was completely unaware that Morgan had just picked out his first victim. Tomorrow was Friday; Ryan would FedEx the polished stones to McKelvey's office, and specify a Monday delivery. He would also send the first clue along with it, and give McKelvey a chance to call Eppes, before Morgan took Marcia, Monday night.

Ryan had stopped at a diner on the way back, and picked up a sandwich, the soup for Eppes, and some bottled water. Now he sat there eating that sandwich, with a sense of celebration. The final phase was starting, and it would climax with the cutting of his ultimate goal - Allison Cook. The odd thing was, though, he thought, as he looked at the young man in front of him, cutting her would pale in comparison to Eppes. Even now, he itched to touch him again. He would do her first, he decided, then save the professor for last. He took another bite of sandwich, and gazed at the chest rising and falling in front of him, imagining his scalpel tracing that first midline incision, sliding smoothly through skin.

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End Chapter 23

_A/N: It would be poetic justice for the dog to attack Morgan, I agree. It just doesn't work out that way..._


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 24**

Sunday night, Don trudged through the airport with his team; all of them with frustration and defeat in their expressions, their body language. They had been in Albuquerque since Wednesday, and – nothing. No clues that went anywhere – oh, they'd found a few witnesses, one streetwalker in particular, who remembered seeing Carlotta getting into a white van, but she hadn't seen the man inside it. No, she didn't remember the plate. Any other sightings of white vans had been run down, and were found to be legitimate delivery vans, with legitimate owners. The killer had made no further attempts, sent no more messages. It was as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth. Finally, Wright had called them back to L.A.

Outside, the night air was warm and humid, but it felt cool after Albuquerque. They separated, going for their vehicles, with quiet muttered 'good nights,' David giving Don a bolstering slap on the arm as he departed. Don could still feel the sensation on his arm as he slung his bag into his SUV, and slid behind the wheel. He didn't want it – didn't want support, didn't want sympathy - he wanted his brother back. Sympathy was just another reminder that Charlie was still missing, and things looked more hopeless by the hour.

He started his vehicle and pulled out, not sure where he was heading. It was late, and he hated to disturb his father; Alan had probably been getting little enough sleep lately. His apartment was unappealing; lonely and dark, and guaranteed a night filled with tequila and nightmares. He found himself pulling into Robin's parking garage, pushing the button for her apartment, being buzzed in at the sound of his voice.

In the hallway outside, he exchanged a nod with the LAPD officer stationed outside. Wright, to Don's relief, had insisted on maintaining a watch on Robin, just in case. He knocked on the door, and it opened almost immediately.

Robin surveyed the figure in the doorway, and paused for just a moment, taken aback. Don's usual expressions, apart from a smile that never failed to make her heart race, and a tender look that she suspected was shown to her alone, ranged from thoughtful to stoic to angry, and none of them were present tonight. Instead, he stood forlornly in the doorway, his shoulders slumped, misery and defeat in his face. She'd never seen him that way before, and her heart twisted in sympathy. "Come here," she said softly, and held out her arms. He stepped inside and she pushed the door shut as she encircled him with her arms, and he held her as if she represented life itself.

She got them a drink, and they sat on the sofa. Her gentle questions were met with silence at first, but then he started talking, his voice low, and shaking with emotion. He told her about all of it, the empty clues, the new victim, the pictures of Charlie, his frustrations, his fears. He talked until he was hoarse, and she listened, with an occasional word of encouragement or understanding, pausing only to get him another drink. Finally, talked out, he sought refuge in her arms, and she embraced him, as, exhausted, he dropped off to sleep. She reached over and turned off the lamp, and sat in the darkness, holding him.

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Amita sat at the desk in her apartment, staring at the picture on her nightstand; one of her favorites of Charlie. He had a beautiful smile, and in the photo, his dark eyes twinkled with laughter. It was nearing midnight, Sunday night, but she couldn't sleep – not that insomnia was anything new these days. She hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since she'd found out about Charu's email.

It had all been so wonderful before that; she'd been blind to how good it was. Only blindness could explain why she would have found another place, another man, attractive for even a drunken instant. Her life had been perfect, and it was now in ruins, crumbling before her eyes. Oh, she still had her career, she had a fabulous life in India if she desired it, and attractive men if she wanted them, but none of it was worth anything if she didn't have Charlie. He was her heart; he made everything else make sense. Without him, life, no matter how good it might look on the surface, was meaningless.

She prayed, above all else, that they would find him alive and unharmed, for his sake. Then she prayed, for her own sake, if they found him and he recovered, that maybe, just maybe, he might forgive her.

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Jill Cash sat on the edge of her L.A. hotel bed, and gazed at the picture. She'd made a copy from the file; no one questioned it. She'd cut the face out; somehow it didn't seem right to stare at the half-nude body, when she hardly knew him, when she was sure he would be embarrassed by it under normal circumstances. Instead, she kept the face, studying the dark curls, the clean jaw line, and the eyes – God, those eyes – huge, dark, filled with intelligence and sensitivity. She'd felt a shock of electricity run through her from the moment she first saw him, and after he spoke, she was sure. She could still remember his slightly flustered response, the quiet self-deprecating smile, when she told him she'd heard of him in Seattle. She recalled clearly the casual, accidental brush of his hand when she brought him coffee the next morning. She was in love with a man who she barely knew, whose chances for survival were remote at best.

She prayed, above all else, that they would find him alive and unharmed, for his sake. Then she prayed, for her own sake, if they found him and he recovered, that maybe, just maybe, he might consider her.

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Denver SAC John McKelvey strode into the office Monday morning, energized by his early morning workout. He wasn't a big fan of that particular gym – it was too snooty, the members a little too caught up in themselves for his taste, but the equipment was first rate, the hours were decent, and most importantly, it was close to home. He could get in and out, and squeeze in workouts either after work, or before, as he had that morning.

He'd stopped in at Denver PD on a matter related to an ongoing case, so the morning mail had already gotten to his desk before he got there. As he approached it, Allison Cook, Pete Nieman, and other members of his team approached, curiosity on their faces. He could see the reason for it sitting on his desk – a medium-sized box.

"They scanned that downstairs," Pete informed him, before John even got a chance to ask. "They said it looks like a bunch of rocks. Sounds like it too – you can hear them sliding around."

John frowned, as he pulled a scissor out of his drawer and began to use the blade like a knife, slicing through the packaging tape. "It came this morning?"

They nodded, and he opened the flaps. The group clustered around, peering inside at the collection of stones, most of them polished. There were two letter-sized envelopes inside, and McKelvey pulled out the first one. His name was on the front in block printing, and he opened it with a growing sense of unease. He turned the envelope over, and another stone dropped out, which he set on the desk, and then pulled a single sheet of paper from it, and read the cryptic lines.

_Agent McKelvey_

_A golden gem._

_Someone who watches you work._

"Shit," breathed McKelvey. He'd gotten the briefings – he knew exactly what this was. That knowledge was confirmed as he looked inside the box, and saw that the other envelope was addressed to Agent Eppes. He looked up at his group. "I think we've just been targeted by the Flower Killer."

He picked up his phone, cognizant of their troubled glances, and dialed Assistant Director Wright.

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Charlie felt the fingertips on his chest, and closed his eyes tighter, trying harder to focus on his current set of equations, his lips moving slightly as if the act of speaking, even inaudibly, would drown out what was happening in the physical world. '_Please leave me alone,_' another part of his brain implored; the plea a subtext under the analysis running through his brain, as the hands continued, touching, exploring. They suddenly grasped him roughly by the arms, and shook, hard.

"I see your lips moving - stop that. Open your eyes. I know you're awake." Morgan's voice was harsh. "It's time for breakfast, and you need a shower."

A blow from the baton brought Charlie's eyes open; he made eye contact without meaning to, and instantly turned his gaze away from Morgan's face. The killer was sans disguise, and his blue eyes flared with impatience. He had made sure his captive had food and water all weekend, and Charlie had regained some strength, but it had come at a price. The hooker early Saturday morning had been the killer's last victim; he had been growing increasingly agitated – and Charlie had been his sole focus.

Charlie was yanked roughly to his feet, feeling exposed and defenseless in his nakedness. He managed to stay on them, he'd actually walked to the bathroom yesterday, although he was weak and dizzy, and each movement brought pain. His body was covered in bruises, and one swollen knee in particular made his gait uneven as he limped to the bathroom, propelled by a strong hand on his arm. He was pushed inside, and stood motionless, head down, until he heard the door close behind him. He felt a flicker of relief that his captor didn't follow him in, but it was distant – he was successfully submerging his feelings, his thoughts, cutting himself off from reality. Each time that reality would intrude and a new pang of fear would strike, he would wrench his mind away; push it into a safe place. On the inside, he was cocooned in intense concentration, desperately trying to stave off hell. On the outside, he was a zombie, broken and bruised, with vacant, far-off eyes. He turned on the shower, got in on shaky legs, and sat down in the tub, letting the water run.

He zoned out; he wasn't sure for how long – it had to be at least a few minutes. He roused himself with an effort; only the fear of more abuse pulled him away from the siren call of mathematical abstraction, and he reached for the soap. His captor hated dirt, loathed it… '_you're a pig; you're filth… disgusting…_' Charlie wasn't sure if the words were in his mind, or had just been spoken aloud, for when he looked up his captor was standing there, watching, his eyes gleaming.

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_Guilty_. The feeling was reinforced as Don was enveloped in a needy desperate hug from his father the next morning – the father who had been going through this alone for the most part, because Don had been in Albuquerque for the last several days, and immersed in the case before that. _Guilty of neglecting his father, guilty of allowing a madman to take his brother, guilty of letting them slip through his fingers, guilty of the complete inability to produce any leads, guilty, guilty, guilty…_

His father was looking at him strangely, and Don realized Alan had spoken. "No, I haven't had breakfast yet." Hoping it was the right response – it must have been, because Alan turned away from the door, guiding Don with a gentle hand, pulling him inward into what used to be home, what used to be Charlie's house, and now felt empty, in spite of Alan's presence. _Guilty… my fault…guilty, worthless…_

He sank into a kitchen chair and rubbed his face, as Alan poured coffee. His father set the steaming cup in front of him, and Don lifted it, sipping gratefully, feeling it clear away some of the cobwebs. He raised his eyes, to see Alan regarding him with worry. His father looked thinner, grayer, diminished somehow. _My fault…_

"When did you get in?"

"Last night. It was kind of late – I was afraid I'd wake you."

"You're welcome to stay here," said Alan gravely. "You know that, don't you?"

Don nodded, and dropped his eyes. "I stayed at Robin's." He glanced up again, to catch a flicker of relief in his father's eyes.

"Good," said Alan as he turned toward the cupboards to find a frying pan. The words were unspoken, but Don knew what he was thinking, '_You should be staying with someone._'

"How do you want your eggs?"

Don sighed. "Scrambled, I guess." He stared into his coffee as Alan went about making the eggs, his mind running over the case so far. There had to be something there, something they were missing…His mind was plowing down the same rut, and the realization brought a growing sense of helplessness, of defeat.

Alan set the plate of eggs gently in front of him, and the simple gesture suddenly triggered something in Don. How many times had he eaten breakfast with Charlie at the same table? The routine, the mundane, was something he desperately wished for now, and without warning, a barrier broke loose inside him – something that had been holding him together emotionally. He doubled over as if in pain, a hand over his face, as despair welled up inside him and tears stung his eyes.

Alan eyed him with alarm; he had never seen his oldest so shaken, so defeated. Don had been grief-stricken when Margaret had passed away, but still strong in spite of the sadness. Now, he seemed so unsure of himself, and the display of anguish was something completely foreign; Don was normally all about control, and strength. He had always presented a tough exterior no matter what was going on inside, and to see him break like this frightened Alan beyond measure. "Donnie," he said softly, and put his hands gently on his son's shoulders.

Don rose suddenly; keeping his face turned downward to hide the tears, as obviously embarrassed by the display as he was unable to stop it. He made a move toward the door, but Alan stopped him, pulling him into a strong embrace, and Don yielded, clutching him like a drowning man. "I'm sorry," he gasped, desperately trying to get hold of himself, lifting a hand and running it over his face. "It's just – Charlie should be here – with us – eating breakfast." His words came out in staccato bursts, truncated before they could degenerate into sobs. "This is my fault – I should have had protection – on him, and now, I can't – I don't…"

"Shh," murmured Alan, patting him on the back, trying to hide the feeling of dread that was spiraling inside him. Had something happened while Don was in Albuquerque? Or was his oldest simply snapping under the strain? Neither was a comforting thought. "It's not your fault, Donnie. You didn't ask for this lunatic to target you."

The tears were subsiding, and Don took a step back and ran the hand over his face again, impatiently, with a derisive snort. "I was an idiot. He led me right where he wanted me – he's still doing it." He raised tortured eyes to meet Alan's gaze. "He's playing with us – we have nothing, Dad, after a week now – nothing."

Alan's shoulders sagged a little. "Nothing new then, in Albuquerque? He didn't try to contact you?"

Don looked away. "He sent pictures," he answered dully. "Charlie – he was bruised, but seemed to be alert." He didn't mention the fact that his brother was half-nude, with a shaved chest. Even if Alan could have handled that, Don wasn't sure he could manage the words, giving substance to the unspoken worry that squatted like a demon in the back of his mind.

A bit of hope sprang into Alan's eyes. "Well, that's something then, right?"

Don closed his eyes. "I don't know."

Alan gripped his arms firmly. "Donnie, look at me." Don turned his head, slowly and opened his eyes, misery still apparent on his face. "You have to know. You have to have hope, and conviction, and purpose. You can't give up on this. You have to fight. I know this is difficult, and the lack of information has been discouraging, but you're one of the best agents in the country. Charlie is depending on you. There is no one else who can bring the fire to this case, the desire to bring him back, that you can. I love you, and I'm not going to let you fall apart. Now, buck up, and sit down. I'm going heat these eggs, and damn it, you're going to eat a good breakfast and get back at it. You _will_ bring him back. I can feel it."

He grabbed the eggs with a firm grasp and strode toward the microwave. Don stared at him with his mouth open, and sank into the chair again, but he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. By the time the eggs reappeared, he had a grim sense of purpose back in his eyes and a stubborn jut to his jaw that Alan knew well.

Don's cell phone rang as he was finishing his breakfast, and he answered it in controlled, clipped tones. He closed it and stood, looking at Alan, the worry still on his face, but his gaze steady. "The killer's resurfaced. I'm headed for Denver."

Alan watched him go, with mixed emotions. His pep talk had provided the desired effect – it had bolstered Don's sense of purpose, but at what cost, he wondered? How long could his oldest submerge his emotions, how long could his youngest survive? How long could either of them combat this untenable situation – how long before the evil destroyed them all?

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End Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Sorry for the delay - real life intruded._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 25**

Wright managed to procure the Bureau jet again. Apparently, it wasn't difficult, considering the fact that the Flower Killer was the FBI's most notorious case at the moment, and had made the national news networks. The team landed in Denver before noon, with Wright to follow later that evening, after a series of meetings that day. Liz, too, remained behind, to coordinate tracking any leads that might have L.A. connections. Don rented an SUV at the airport that they all managed to squeeze into; they would be issued official vehicles at the Denver office.

Colby drove, and Don rode shotgun. He was playing with his cell phone, frowning, and Colby glanced at him as he pulled onto I-70 from Pena Blvd. "Something wrong?"

Don shook his head, frowning. "This damn cell phone. Wright said he called me three times this morning before he finally got me. It was on, and I'd just charged it, but I only got the third call. I think the battery might be going."

"Turn it in at the Denver office, and get another," suggested Megan from the back seat. "They can issue them just as easily as we can."

Don poked at his cell phone. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to."

David spoke up from directly behind him. "So what's the deal? I didn't get the details."

Megan spoke, with a sidelong glance at Jill Cash, who sat silently next to her. "Jill and I were in the office when the call came in. SAC John McKelvey got a package first thing this morning. It contained a large number of small stones, some semi-precious, like the kind you can get at souvenir stores. There were two messages enclosed. He opened the one addressed to him. It was worded similarly to the messages that Don and Mike Shire received – something about a golden gem – I didn't get the exact wording. There was another envelope there, addressed to Don. McKelvey didn't open it yet."

Silence descended in the vehicle, as the group absorbed that fact; pondering what might be in the envelope. Don could feel their eyes on him, and by the time they'd reached the Byron G. Rogers Federal Building on Stout Street, he was fighting impatience, punching irritably at his cell phone. Colby pulled into the entrance for the parking garage, his ID ready, but it wasn't required; the eighteen-story building housed many offices, and the lot was accessible to the public.

A short elevator ride later, they found themselves at Suite 1823, which housed the Denver Bureau office. It looked a lot like the L.A. office inside, and Agent McKelvey and his team were waiting in a conference room. Introductions were made; Agents Pete Nieman, Allison Cook, and Jay Rome rounded out McKelvey's immediate team, and there were others in the room, including representatives from Denver PD and a slight, white-haired man McKelvey introduced as George Wilcox, who wore a consultant's badge.

McKelvey indicated the medium-sized cardboard box on the table. "This was waiting for me when I came in this morning." He tipped it a bit so they could see the contents, and there was a rattle as small stones slid over one another, in a race toward the lower wall of the box. "There were two envelopes inside – this was in one of them." He lifted a sheet of paper and handed it to Don. "This is a copy – we're having the original analyzed for prints."

"Yeah, he's been pretty careful about leaving prints behind," said Don, as he examined the note.

_Agent McKelvey_

_A golden gem._

_Someone who watches you work._

He handed it off to his team. The damn paper was vibrating in his hand, and he quickly stuffed the offending hand in his pocket. "That's the same type of message – looks like the same style and size of font. If the previous clues were any indication, he's looking at a blonde."

McKelvey nodded, and held up a small stone. "This was in the envelope with the note. We had George Wilcox come in to analyze it – he a geologist."

He inclined his head toward the white haired man, who cleared his throat and spoke in a reedy voice. "It's pyrite. Otherwise know as 'fool's gold.'"

Jill Cash spoke, with a sardonic grimace. "He's mocking us."

McKelvey handed another envelope to Don. "This was in the box, also, addressed to you."

Don took it, hesitating for an instant. He'd been impatient to see what was in it since he'd heard about it from Wright that morning, but now that he held it, he was suddenly reluctant. The others were watching him, however, so he took a deep breath, and tore open the envelope. One eight-by-ten picture was enclosed, printed on regular printer paper, and the image made him freeze, motionless with shock, expelling the breath shakily. It was Charlie, lying on his side on a tiled floor, his hands and feet bound, naked, badly bruised, with one eye completely swollen shut. The other eye gazed off away from the camera, dull, unfocused. On the bottom of the photo, two words were printed in block letters – '_Broken bird._'

Don took in a sharp breath, feeling his heart and gut dance a strange painful pas-de-deux. His hand was shaking in earnest now, as he held the paper out to his team. Jill Cash took it first, and pure pain passed over her face before she passed it on to David, who looked at his silent SAC. "That's Charlie," he said quietly in confirmation, turning his eyes to McKelvey.

He laid the picture on the table, and the Denver agents turned to look at it, their expressions turning somber. They had all been briefed on the case background, and were aware that the killer held the brother of the Los Angeles SAC. For a moment, there was silence in the room; then McKelvey spoke, his voice husky. "We're gonna get him, Eppes. This stops here, in Denver."

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Alan sat in his armchair, adrift. Although it was Monday, he'd called in yet again that day; he had no energy, no will to deal with the office. After Don had gone, he'd cleaned up the breakfast dishes, and tried to occupy his mind by flipping through the news channels. It worked, at least a little, until one of the channels ran a story on the Flower Killer. He tried to turn it off, but sat there glued, like a moth to the flame, as if he could learn something about the case from a reporter. Fat chance. They didn't even know the man was in Denver yet. He flicked off the screen with sigh.

He alternately tried to read the paper, wandered aimlessly through the garden, and napped, off and on, until two or so, when he woke again, sitting in the armchair, staring at nothing. A sudden knock on the door brought him to his feet, so suddenly he almost keeled over with dizziness. His heart pounding, he stumbled toward it, afraid of the worst, fearing a messenger with bad news. He drew a deep shaky breath of relief as he spied Amita through the window, and he tried to compose himself as he opened the door.

Neither of them said anything for a moment; Alan was still half-asleep, and all he could think about was the photograph. She cleared her throat nervously, and he came to his senses, and stepped back to usher her into the room. "Amita. Please come in."

She bowed her head once in acknowledgement and entered, almost timidly, eyes downcast. "Sit down," offered Alan as they made their way over to the living room furniture, and she sat, finally raising her eyes to meet his.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you back," she said softly. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk to me, after you found out."

Alan eyed her, feeling a deep disappointment settle in his chest. Along with the pain came a tinge of anger; he dearly loved the girl, but he loved Charlie more, and the thought that his son had gone into his ordeal already suffering made Alan resentful toward her, even though he tried hard to be objective. _Found out what?_ he wondered. What was the extent of the problem?

"I'm afraid I'm not clear about it all," he admitted. "I didn't have a chance to talk to Charlie about it, before…" His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat, tried again. "I really don't know where things stand."

She sighed, and her lower lip trembled a little. "That makes two of us. I didn't get a chance to talk to him either – I'm sure he got the email, but he wouldn't return my calls."

"Why did you send it to him?" asked Alan quietly. "Did you want to break it off?"

"I didn't send it to him," she protested, trying to fight back tears. "My cousin did. She told him I wanted to stay in India – I think she was purposely trying to break up our relationship, so I would consider moving there permanently."

Alan couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "And I suppose she forced you to kiss the young man."

Amita winced, and dropped her eyes. "No. I did that. I was a bit – intoxicated – it was at a party." She raised her eyes again, pleadingly. "It was a mistake – it was one kiss. I know it was wrong, but…"

"But?" As an answer, she dropped her eyes again and shook her head, and Alan watched her, his expression softening just a bit. "I'll admit; I always saw the two of you together. I imagined one day, you would be my daughter-in-law, and so I'll speak to you now as if you were one of my children. You and Charlie are at a point in your relationship where you both need to be sure of what you want. You've both invested a lot, emotionally and from a time perspective. If either of you backed out now, I'm sure one or both of you would be very hurt. However, if one of you decides that is the right thing to do, it's better to make the decision sooner, rather than later."

"I want to stay together," whispered Amita.

"Do you?" asked Alan.

His voice was gentle, but his eyes were coolly observant – in fact, at that moment, he reminded Amita very much of Don. Before she could answer, he continued. "Do you want him because he didn't answer your calls - because he might now have become something you can't have? Do you feel this way because he's in danger, and you're worried about him, as a friend? Are you punishing yourself, trying to deal with the guilt you feel from your indiscretion? None of those are acceptable reasons. You need to ask yourself what, deep inside, drove you to form a relationship with that other young man."

"It wasn't a relationship," protested Amita. "It was one kiss."

"You were standing next to him in several pictures, at several different events," chided Alan gently. "If you didn't want the young man's attention, I'm sure you would have told him before then. It may merely have been casual flirting, and had no real bearing on your relationship with Charlie – and it may not. I'm not judging you – I just want you to be absolutely sure of why you want Charlie back so badly. If – when – he returns, he'll have a lot to deal with. A relationship in flux won't be the best thing for him. If you can't be sure your commitment is solid, it might be best, for his sake, not to try to repair things. The last thing he will need is more emotional turmoil. Don't let a misplaced sense of guilt allow you to drag him through more pain."

Amita's face suddenly crumpled, and she covered it with her hands. "I love him, I do," she said, her voice cracking as she wiped away tears.

"I believe you," said Alan, simply. "Just be sure your love is the real thing, your commitment is complete, for his sake, before you see him again."

She raised a tear-streaked face. "You sound so sure – that they'll find him."

Alan smiled sadly. "I have to be sure. First of all, I have complete faith in Don. Secondly, I couldn't bear the alternative. Now, would you like some tea?"

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Ryan Morgan shifted impatiently in the driver's seat of the van, and rolled his head to try to release the tension in his neck and shoulders. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. on Monday evening, and he was nearing McKelvey's gym. He had set up the appointment with the girl at the desk, Marcia Sanders, for that night, but had missed it on purpose. Instead, he intended to park the vehicle and wait until Marcia came out into the parking lot, and then get out of the vehicle, pretending to her that he thought the closing time was 10:30, instead of 10:00. He would apologize for not getting there in time; maybe ask her out for a drink. If there was no one in the lot, he might try to take her right there; or if it looked too risky, he could try to take her at the bar, if she accepted his invitation. If all else failed, he could follow her home.

One thing was certain – he had to have her – had to have someone. The need had grown over the weekend to a nearly unbearable level, and his obsession with the professor had driven him close to the cutting point. He had been unable to leave him alone, and more than once had his scalpel out, just barely containing himself each time. The day had nearly been a disaster; against his better judgment, he had gotten a razor and gone to prep his captive's chest again after his shower, but Eppes, who had been weak and quiet, retreating into a kind of trancelike state, suddenly had snapped, and fought him like a wild thing. He'd had to beat him again, subdue him…

A horn honked behind him, and he realized he was sitting at a light that had changed to green. He was cutting Eppes soon, he knew – it was inevitable. He'd wanted to wait until at least Allison Cook, preferably taking a victim after her, someone closer to McKelvey, to keep up the charade of a pattern, but it was growing increasingly hard to hold off. He needed to cut, and it needed to be tonight.

As he pulled down street to the gym, he knew immediately that something was off. Something was wrong…what? He cruised slowly, eyes darting from side to side, looking, looking… There. He'd spotted it in the glow of a streetlight – a dark sedan with two occupants parked in the lot for the gym. They were just sitting there, not talking; watching the lot. Agents or cops – they had to be. Fighting the urge to step hard on the gas, he rolled slowly past the entrance to the lot, and on down the street. Fortunately, it contained other traffic, and he moved along with the flow. Further down, a dark SUV was parked on the street, and in it, he spotted another agent – Allison Cook herself. It took every bit of his self-control to cruise past her without panicking, but he did, making it to end of the street in a cold sweat, looking in his side mirror to make sure she was staying put. He turned the corner and headed away from the gym, shaking, nearly ready to cry from rage and disappointment. He needed it so badly…

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End Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 26**

Don leafed through the file in front of him. It was nearly 11:00 p.m., and the conference room was empty, except for him. The office was also nearly empty; outside the room, he could hear Wright and McKelvey quietly conversing. Wright had arrived two hours earlier from L.A., looking tired, his suit uncharacteristically rumpled. The three of them were the only ones in the office - all available agents and some Denver PD personnel were assigned to possible victims – watching any blonds who McKelvey had been in contact with during the past week. In spite of the wording of the message – _'someone who watches you work'_ – Don had advised McKelvey to consider _any_ blonds, male or female, at _any_ place he'd been in the last two weeks. It was imperative to keep open-minded, Don had told him. Like a Monday morning quarterback, spouting the wisdom of hindsight. Someone had suggested that McKelvey himself, with his blond hair, might be the target, and so Wright had arranged for a protective detail on the Denver SAC, when he was ready to leave the office.

Don had no such arrangement, but he was a prisoner nevertheless; Wright refused to relax his order that Don stay out of the field. Don's team had all been issued department vehicles, but not him – there was no need, Wright told him, if he was not going to be in the field; besides, the Denver office was running short on regulation vehicles. Instead, Don would keep the rental vehicle from the airport, which was more than adequate for the drive from the hotel to the office. Don had become accustomed to being in command, but now he felt like a loser, like a second-class citizen with his civilian vehicle, relegated to paperwork in the conference room. It was only small comfort that McKelvey was stuck there with him – Wright didn't want the Denver SAC out in the field either, but it was McKelvey's office, and he at least got to call the shots. Don got paperwork.

Not that it wasn't important. Someone had to go through the files, looking at related cases. Anything resembling stabbings or mutilations over the years, especially in recent months, was piled in front of him. There was a general belief that the perp had to have been in Denver before the Wyoming killing, based on the location where the first possible victim had been found. Maybe he'd even resided in Denver for a period of time. Of course, he could have come from anywhere, but they had to start doing a detailed look for similar cases somewhere, and Denver was as good a city as any in which to start.

Don felt a chill, a surge of panic, as the situation reasserted itself in his mind. This was it, as far as Charlie was concerned – the final showdown. The killer had chosen the next city, made his declaration. If past history was any judge, he would be planning to make his way through a victim or two, until he had one that he deemed was a handoff for Charlie. They were running out of time, out of victims. If they didn't catch him soon… He fought down a shudder, trying to keep his mind on the file in front of him. They had to get him, they had to. Failure was not an option.

He looked up as McKelvey came in through the door, and plopped into a seat across the table from him. "It's getting late," said McKelvey. "The surveillance teams just reported in. It's quiet – you probably ought to go check in at your hotel, get some sleep."

"I already checked in," Don replied. McKelvey was doing his best to be diplomatic, but the statement still sounded just a bit peremptory. In spite of the fact that McKelvey was right, Don felt a stubborn need to buck his authority. "I ran over at around seven, while you were in a meeting."

McKelvey nodded, backing off a little. "Suit yourself. I'm heading out myself. I'm sure we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. We're starting at six. Oh – I did process your request for a new cell phone – it should be in tomorrow morning." He stood, a look of understanding crossed his face, and his voice turned slightly conspiratorial. "You probably should know, Wright said he'd stay until we both left."

"Okay, thanks," said Don quietly, with a wry grimace. He had no intention of disregarding orders and going out, but now he couldn't even stay to work on paperwork without keeping his A.D up all night. He knew it was Wright's way of looking out for both of them, but it seemed condescending, and especially now, when he felt so helpless anyway, it rankled. He sighed and flipped the folder shut, and stacked it on top of the pile that hadn't been gone through yet. He'd take them back to the hotel, he decided, and go through them there.

A phone rang out in the office as he stepped out of the conference room with the files under his arm, and he listened absently as McKelvey put it on speaker, with Wright standing nearby, listening. Another report-in, this time from Agent Cook. She had left McKelvey's gym, and was on her way back in to the office. The receptionist at the gym, a blonde girl named Marcia, was on her way home, escorted by two Denver police officers, who would set up surveillance at her apartment. Allison was stopping in briefly to file a report before she headed home. No, it had been quiet, she said. No white vans. They'd checked out every white male at the gym – all had been longtime members, and none had fit the profile.

As Cook and McKelvey's conversation floated through the office, Don sidled up to Wright and murmured quietly. "I'm heading back to the hotel. McKelvey has my number."

Wright nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's quiet now – get some rest while you can. See you in the morning."

Don gave him a tired nod, and headed for the elevator. The fluorescent lights in it were harsh and garish, and seemed to accentuate the lateness of the hour. He leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes for a minute. God knew, he was tired. He couldn't remember being this exhausted in recent memory. The doors opened before he reached his floor, and two other people got on, both young men in their early thirties, in suits and loosened ties, with briefcases. They were chatting with animation – both lawyers, apparently. Young blood, with lots of energy and ambition. They made Don feel even more tired, and suddenly old.

The doors opened for one level of the parking garage, and the two lawyers exited, heading for their vehicles. Don was the next floor down, and as the elevator door opened into the garage, he noted there were still several vehicles there, despite the lateness of the hour. Probably many of them were on the case – the owners riding together with another agent, another cop, their own vehicles parked. As he stepped out, he caught a glimpse of a vehicle flashing past – he didn't get a good look, but it appeared to be Agent Allison Cook. The vehicle turned at the ramp and went on to the level above. He caught movement at the opposite end of the garage, near the down ramp; there was another set of doors there, and he saw one of them slowly closing – someone had just entered that set of stairs, apparently. Still people coming and going, even at this time of night.

As he walked to the SUV, he wondered absently why someone would be too impatient to wait for the elevator – why a person would park on this floor and use the stairs, when there were obviously several parking places to be had on the level above. Something didn't jive there, he thought, as he hit the door unlock button on the key and pulled the SUV door open, trying to juggle the files in his arms. He'd stuffed some into a case, but they didn't all fit, and one of the loose ones slipped, partially spilling its contents on the pavement.

He sighed, opened the back door of the SUV and deposited the rest of his load, then bent to retrieve the paperwork on the ground. He heard an engine stop on the floor above – probably Agent Cook's, he thought, as he gathered errant sheets of paper. He took his time; tucking the contents back in the file neatly, glancing at them as he stood. After a few minutes, he heard a vehicle door open, then shut; then suddenly there was a muffled cry.

Don froze, then tossed the file in the vehicle, and began running for the up ramp. He heard shouts, and as he reached the top of the ramp and the next level, he looked down the rows and spotted the source of the noise. Allison Cook was on the ground next to her vehicle with a hand to her head, and one of the lawyers from the elevator was helping her to sit up, while the other one yelled at someone, looking toward the far stairway. Don could see a figure with long dark hair sprinting away from them, already too far for the lawyers to catch him, and the man jerked open the stairwell door, and disappeared inside.

Don hesitated for just a fraction of a second. The man was getting away, and it appeared Allison was being taken care of. He needed to go after the perp; and had just started to sprint toward the stairwell on his end of that level, when he heard the bang of a door on the level below. He reversed direction, and ran back around the corner and looked down the ramp. The dark haired man was on the far side of the garage, heading for a blue van. Without breaking stride, Don sprinted for his SUV, which was between him and the blue van. He had just gotten in and slammed the door when the blue van pulled out, careened around the far corner, and disappeared, on its way to the exit below. He turned to look; taking that extra moment to try to get a plate number in case he lost him, but the dim garage lighting and the speed of the vehicle made that a hopeless proposition. He cranked the ignition harder than he needed to; the SUV's engine roared to life, and he threw it into reverse and backed up with a screech of tires.

By the time he got to the next level, another car had pulled out and had gotten between him and the blue van. Fortunately, it was moving along quickly, and Don could catch glimpses of the van ahead of them each time he hit another level, just before it turned the corner. He wasn't close enough to stop it from going through the exit gate, however; the gate was already rising in front of the van as he turned the last corner, and he nearly crawled up the bumper of the vehicle in front of him in his impatience to exit, himself. He was trying not to lay on the horn; the driver of the blue van couldn't know for sure at that point whether he was being followed, and Don wanted to keep it that way. Although the van was the wrong color, it hadn't been lost on Don that it was a panel van. There was a chance it could be him, the killer; and if so, there was a chance that he would lead Don to Charlie.

He was finally free of the garage, and he shot looks back and forth down the street, pulling hard to the right when he spotted the blue van as it passed under a streetlight, the next block down. There were now two cars between him and the van, which was actually a blessing; he needed to keep his distance to keep from being seen. The van turned right up ahead – headed for the highway, no doubt, and Don reached automatically toward the center of the dash, before he remembered he wasn't in a department-issue vehicle – he had no radio. He fumbled instead for his cell phone, grabbing it and hanging on as he turned the corner himself, then flipped it open, his eye on the van up ahead. He glanced down at the keypad, only to be confronted with a blank screen.

He uttered a string of curses, short but definitely descriptive, and punched the 'on' button with his thumb – not once, but three times, and finally flung the dead phone on the seat beside him with a particularly ripe epithet. Here he was, possibly tailing the killer – the best opportunity they'd had to take the guy, and he was without support, or a way to contact them. As the surge of adrenaline started to subside a little, however, he began to think that perhaps it was for the best. If support had been called in, Wright would undoubtedly move to take the man – he wouldn't take any chances of letting him escape – and if that happened, the man might not choose to give them Charlie's location. It was riskier to try to tail the suspect, but if Don managed to track him to where Charlie was…

There was no question in his mind, and happily, the situation gave him no choice. If he stopped to call for back up he would lose the suspect. If his decision was questioned later, that would be his rationale. He had only one job now – to stay on the man's tail without creating suspicion. He gripped the steering wheel just a bit tighter, and set his jaw. He could not, would not, screw this up.

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Ryan Morgan shook with anger and frustration behind the wheel of the van, his hands working, opening and closing, on the wheel. Everything he touched today had been a disaster – everything.

After leaving the gym area earlier, he'd cast desperately about for an alternative to Marcia Sanders. A dark haired woman on the street had caught his eye, and she made him think of Allison. A vision had flashed in his mind of the vehicle he'd just passed – Allison – sitting alone in her SUV. What if he took her tonight, he had suddenly wondered? Jumped right ahead to the objective?

The problem was he had no idea where she was going after her stakeout, or when. Would she accompany Marcia home? As he calmed down, he began to think more rationally, and circled back around carefully to the street the gym was on, pulling over to the side, but well down the street away from the gym. From his vantage point, he could see the parking lot, and at a few minutes after 10:00 p.m., he saw Marcia come out, with a woman escort – not Allison, apparently another agent, or a cop. They got in and drove away, and the two plainclothes police officers in the other vehicle followed them. Allison's SUV was still parked down at the other end of the street, and she stayed put as they passed her. So she wasn't going with them – that meant she was either going home, or back to the office. He didn't want to follow her – he didn't want to take chance of being spotted, and it would be harder to get close to her if he had to pull in right behind her. It would be much better if he could be there before her, and position himself. He pondered a minute, wondering which location to try.

He picked the office. If she didn't show up there, he decided, he'd go to her apartment later. He'd headed straight for the parking lot of the Federal Building on Stout Street – he'd been there before, to pick Allison up for one of their dates. He knew which floor she usually parked on, and pulled the van into a spot on the far side of that level. Sure enough, she had shown up minutes after he had, but this time she pulled up to the level above. He'd had to run up the stairs, but when he got up to her level, she hadn't gotten out of the vehicle yet. She had sat talking on her cell phone for a moment, allowing him time to make his way close her van, to crouch near it. He'd seen two young men on that level; they had paused near one of their cars, talking. They were a problem. Had he been collected, in a rational frame of mind, he would have aborted right then, but the need was making him desperate, crazy. The young men were on the other side of the lot, he reasoned, and there was no one else around. If he stunned her quickly and quietly, he could inject her and hide her in her own SUV until they left, and pull his van right up to her vehicle to collect her.

It was a decent enough plan, even though it was impulsive, and might well have worked with a civilian. Allison, however, was a trained agent; she caught his movement out of the corner of her eye as she exited the vehicle, and swung away from it. As a result, his blow to her head was glancing instead of direct. She went down, stunned, but not out, crying out as she fell, and it had been enough to alert the young men, who came running. He'd had to abandon the attempt then, and darted back through the parked vehicles to the stairwell, flying down the stairs and back to his van, consumed with rage.

He was still raging as he took the ramp for the highway – his insides a cocktail of fury, fear, adrenaline, and _need._ He was shaking like a junkie – he had to cut, and was without either of his intended victims - both of his plots had turned into failures. Worse yet, his ultimate victim, Allison, would now more than likely be out of reach – they would put protection on her, he would never be able to get to her, at least not in the foreseeable future. He would have to regroup. Perhaps leave Denver for a while, move around the country, selecting victims and cutting at will, and come back to Denver after weeks, or months. First, though, he needed to address his immediate need for a fix, so he could think straight. He wouldn't risk another attempt at a random victim, not when his mind was so dysfunctional. No, there was no reason to do that. He had a victim already, one that he'd been pining to cut. He tightened his grip on the wheel, and a smile crept onto his face, as he sped off into the night. Yes, he had a victim. He had Eppes.

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End Chapter 26


	27. Chapter 27

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 27**

Don kept well back on the highway. Fortunately, there were a few vehicles on Highway 70 westbound, and he fell in among them, watching the blue van up ahead. The suspect was traveling just slightly over the speed limit, and not making any evasive maneuvers, so Don felt comfortable that the perp hadn't noticed him. He kept his eye out for a state trooper, thinking he might get a chance to signal one, but at close to midnight on a Monday night, the city was quiet, and patrols were probably limited – he saw none. At the outskirts of the city, the van took the exit for Highway 470 south, and Don followed.

That too, was a good-sized highway, and again, Don had no issues keeping the van in sight. The suspect was only on 470 for about four or five miles, when he took an exit for West Morrison Road. That road was two-lane, and wound through the small suburb of Morrison, where it turned into Bear Creek Avenue, which became, as it exited the small town, Bear Creek Road. Things were getting a bit trickier – there were still a few cars on the road in town, but as the road hit the edge of Morrison, it turned into two-lane highway headed out into nowhere. There was no one between them now, and as Don reached a driveway to a small farm, he turned off, pulling slowly up it until the van lights disappeared around a bend. He immediately turned off his headlights and backed up, hurrying back onto the road behind the van. With any luck, the suspect had seen him pull off, and would now think there was no one behind him.

The road out that way twisted and turned, winding through the mountains, and the rental SUV's engine growled as it powered up an incline. Don felt an unbearable tightness in his gut until he was back within sight of taillights. He pulled forward enough to make sure they belonged to the blue van, and then he eased off, just keeping them in sight. The rental SUV was dark, and without the headlights at night was probably impossible to spot in a rearview mirror, but he didn't want to take any chances. Driving without lights in those hills was a challenge – luckily, there was bright moon that night, enough to illuminate a few yards of pavement in front of him, and Don got a general feel for the road based on what the taillights were doing further down the road. More than once, blackness yawned to one side or the other, and he knew he was skirting a drop-off. One miscalculation and he'd be over an edge.

As they progressed, the twisting grew more pronounced, and Don would lose sight of the van for a minute or two, but it didn't matter much – there was nothing – absolutely nothing out this way. Still, it put Don on the edge of his seat until he saw the taillights again. His mind was racing, as he tried to prepare himself for what might be ahead. It would be best if he could find some way to call for backup before he went in to wherever the man was holing up – maybe there would be a neighbor down the road – some place close enough with a phone. The thought that he might finally be near his brother – that it was conceivable he might see Charlie soon, maybe within minutes, made his heart pound, and he shifted sweating hands on the wheel.

He'd lost sight of the taillights again, and as he passed a sign announcing the town of Idledale was approaching, he swore softly, and stepped on the gas. Towns meant side streets, and turnoffs. He had to keep the taillights in sight now, and once he hit town he'd have to turn his headlights back on. He wasn't so much afraid of being stopped, as he was that the man in the van would see a vehicle without headlights behind him in the lights of town, and would become suspicious. He came around a bend to see a sign on the left that said 'Shady Ln,' and shortly after he passed it, he could see the taillights up ahead. He was coming into town now, and scattered houses were starting to appear. The vehicle up ahead passed through a halo of light thrown by a security light for a small manufacturing company, and Don's heart nearly stopped. It wasn't the van – he was following a red pickup!

"Shit," he breathed, his heart hammering in earnest now. He pulled into the empty parking lot of the manufacturing company, and made a fast U-turn, the tires of his SUV squealing in protest. How in the hell had he lost him? He hadn't seen any sign of a road or turnoff between Morrison and Idledale, other than Shady Lane. He paused at the entrance to the lot, frantically trying to decide which way to go on Big Bear Road. Was the van still further ahead, in front of the pickup? Maybe the pickup had pulled out from Shady Lane behind it, before Don caught up to them. Or maybe the van had turned off onto Shady Lane. If that was the case, Shady Lane was its final destination, more than likely, but on the other hand, if it was in front of the truck, he was going to lose him. He swore, turned on his headlights, and made a right, heading after the truck into town.

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Charlie lay in the darkness in body only, his mind worlds away. One eye was swollen shut; the other one this time, and he was bound and lying on the tile floor again, consumed with pain.

His ill-fated attempt to fight the killer earlier that day had earned him more unwanted attention, including a savage beating, and afterward, the man had carried him, half-conscious, back into the meat processing room. This time, he hadn't stopped there; he'd gone on into the walk-refrigerator, the place where he'd tied down the woman two days earlier before cutting her. Charlie had thought that was it – that his time had come, and it seemed as though the killer was thinking that way, too, but after standing motionless for a brief period, the man had laid him on the floor. Charlie had blacked out for a moment, or perhaps several, and when he woke, his hands and feet were bound, and the man was gone.

His departure was no relief, Charlie had thought dully; he knew the man would return. He was beyond his limit; he wanted it only to end. During the assault, after he realized how senseless resistance was, he'd quit fighting and retreated inward. He was getting closer to blocking out what was happening around him – to blocking it out entirely. There was something still in the way, however - a barrier that kept him from going there completely; he could feel it, like a wall. If he just get over that wall, get deep enough inside himself, he wouldn't have to feel anymore.

That had been several hours ago; it was dark now, and he thought vaguely that it must be night. He closed his good eye, and saw the numbers, iridescent, shining in the night sky like stars. He wanted to go to them… A vision drifted into his mind – a space station, bright against the dark sky, floating in the dark sea of numbers, and a man in a space suit, walking in space, tethered to the station by a line. Larry, he wondered? He tried to float toward him.

Far away, he heard footsteps, and outside his cocoon of darkness and shining numbers, it became light – harsh and bright, a work light. He could feel hands, arms, grabbing him, lifting him, but they were outside, and he was in. He fought the sensation of the real world, trying to pull him back, and tried to stay inside, floating toward the man in the space suit. The bonds around his wrists and ankles were cut, but he lay limply. Focus. He was on his back, his arms and legs were being bound to a table. The killer's face hovered over him, but he refused to see it, refused to acknowledge what he knew was his impending death. Focus. The man in the space suit began to turn toward him; he was drawing closer.

Charlie heard a voice, but it was outside, so he ignored it, ignored the hands, ignored the smooth strokes of the razor that stroked his chest. It seemed to last forever. The man dressed in space gear was turning now, slowly, and he could see the face through the clear faceplate of his suit. Not Larry. It was he - Charlie. His own eyes looked back at him, calm, knowing, black against the darkness of the sky shining with numbers. "Pick something," his space-man self said. He waved a hand toward constellations of equations. "Pick one, pick several. If you try hard enough, you can reach them."

He turned to look at them, and suddenly he and the vision were one – he was the spaceman. His body, though weightless, felt awkward and clumsy in the suit, and he pulled against the tether holding him to the space station, straining toward the stars.

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The red pickup turned off at a roadside bar, and Don flashed past, gunning the gas, speeding out the other side of Idledale. He barreled up the road at top speed for three miles, before he knew that he'd gone the wrong way. The road straightened, then curved to the left along a mountain face, but he was at a high point, and could see a good distance along it in the moonlight. If the van had come this way, he would have caught up to it by now, or at least be able to see it in the distance. He tromped on the brakes, turned, and doubled back, and was back in the city limits in minutes, slowing only enough to keep from attracting too much attention – still going fast, too fast. He came up on Shady Lane, and turned down it. It was a long road, but it was a dead end; the houses were spread out and modest; all of them with cars in the driveway. The few that had garages had other vehicles parked in front, blocking access to the garages in every case. No blue van. The suspect hadn't turned down Shady Lane, either.

Don turned around and headed back out, pulling up hard, hitting the brakes at the turn off for Big Bear Road, and punched the steering wheel with his fist. He was breathing heavily now, sweating, as if he'd been running, filled with frustration, anger, adrenaline.

There were two options left. One was to go back into Idledale, explore the handful of other side roads in town. The other was to go even further back the way he'd come, back towards Morrison. It was conceivable there was an unmarked turnoff somewhere that he'd missed in the dark, without his headlights. He sat for just a moment, and turned right, toward Morrison. He'd check that option out first – it made more sense anyway – that location, if it existed, would be more remote than something in town would.

He'd gone less than two miles when he saw it. A gravel road, heavily overgrown, snaked between the pines - he'd missed it the first time, without his headlights. He pulled onto it, now creeping, painfully conscious of the rocks and grit crunching under his tires. If there were someone back there, he would hear him coming. He pulled his vehicle off to the side of the road and shut off the engine. He could hardly afford the time for a hike, but he had no choice – his vehicle was too noisy. If this was the place, there was no option for a phone, either. He turned and leaned over the seat, grabbing the case behind him, and pulled out the charger for his cell phone. The phone hadn't been holding charges long, and perhaps was now dead completely, but he could at least try – he'd plug it in while he reconnoitered, and if he found something he'd come back and hope it was holding enough of a charge for him to call for backup.

The 'charging' message came up on the screen, which was encouraging. Don tucked the phone down under the seat, retrieved an extra clip for his service revolver, and got out of the vehicle, wincing as the door shut, even though the sound wasn't terribly loud. He locked the vehicle, removed his gun from its holster and checked the action, and began trotting down the gravel road in the darkness.

He'd gone over a mile, and was beginning to think he was on a road to nowhere when he saw the light through the trees. He moved to the side of the road, close to cover, proceeding more cautiously as he drew nearer. He could hear the hum of a generator, and as the undergrowth gave way to a clearing, he saw a house with a large attached building. Parked outside was the blue van. "Bingo," he breathed, his heartbeat ratcheting up a notch.

There was light coming from the building, and with a quick look around, he darted across the clearing towards it, crouching, making for a window.

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Ryan Morgan paused to survey his work. The professor's chest and abdomen had been prepped, clean and hairless, ready for the cut. He seemed to be awake; although one eye was swollen shut – the other one this time, from the assault that morning. The right eye, still black from the previous beating, was open, but unfocused, staring up at the ceiling. He wasn't fighting; he seemed to be in some kind of trance, although his breathing was rapid, and there was tension in his body. Morgan picked up the scalpel.

He normally started at the top, an inch or so below the clavicle, making an incision down to the navel. From there, he would start to slice outward, cutting skin into one-inch strips, leaving the end at the side of the body intact. He would grip the edge of those strips at the center of the body and start pulling them up and outward, teasing them away from the tissue underneath, using the scalpel when necessary. The cuts were not deep – he never penetrated the muscle layer, finessing just the skin away with skilled fingers. He ran his fingertips over the victim's chest and stomach. Eppes was ordinarily lean, and after a week with little food, was nearly emaciated. Morgan could see the abdominal muscles outlined clearly under the skin, unobscured by subcutaneous fat. It was a thing of beauty, and Morgan decided to start there, above the navel, instead of at the chest. He brought the scalpel down with gloved hands, positioning it.

--

As if from far away, Charlie caught the flash of the scalpel, and his breathing accelerated. He was pulling hard at the space station tether now, straining toward a particularly interesting analysis suspended in the cosmos like a meteor shower. He felt a flash of pain in his stomach, a white-hot spear, and he uttered a soft exhaled grunt, and pulled more desperately at the umbilicus tying him to the outside world. The pain was a catalyst, he felt something give; something snapped deep inside his head, and suddenly the lifeline separated and he floated away, towards the numbers, towards the stars, away from the dirty rusty metal table he was lying on, away from the toxic, evil manifestation standing over him, away from the pain. He could still sense it, dimly, the pain, the light, but it was now safely outside. He embraced the blackness and emptiness, his mind running lovingly over a stunning sequence of equations, so perfect, so beautiful, hanging like jewels in the darkness. His breathing began to regulate, although it was still fast and shallow, and he whispered to himself as he began the analysis.

--

Ryan Morgan groaned in pleasure at the cut, slowly drawing the scalpel upward. He was breathing heavily now, the ecstasy was approaching. Male skin was perfect – so much more collagen, more firmness, not the yielding softness of female skin. Less fat underneath for a safety margin – he needed to be precise; he prided himself on making his cuts without touching muscle. Rivulets of blood ran from the cut, dripping down the young man's sides, but apart from a soft "huh-ah," he was silent - even his breathing had calmed somewhat. Ryan shot an abstracted glance at his face, wondering if he'd passed out, but the professor's good eye was still open, although focused on nothing, and his lips were moving slightly, as if he were speaking to himself. Morgan felt a surge of satisfaction; he preferred his victims conscious if at all possible – and he continued, reveling in the glorious drag of scalpel through skin. The incision was approaching six inches in length; he could feel the first rush of what promised to be many rushes of pleasure, beyond any he'd felt before, when it all came to a horrid, stupefying halt.

It was the dog. It was barking and growling outside, and Ryan had dealt with enough dogs to know it was excited, that the bark was directed at something, someone, whom the dog found threatening. He froze; then his hand found the switch for the work light, plunging the room, the building, into darkness.

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End Chapter 27

_A/N: Talk about evil cliffies - this one is doubly evil in that I have to leave for a few days. I will be back on Monday. I am going to try to post from my location, but there are no guarantees - I may have to wait for Monday morning. Go ahead, scream, it's okay._


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the delay and thanks for waiting. I'm going to try to get back to my usual one a day pace. Here's 28._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 28**

Don crept to the window of the building next to the house with a quick look behind him. He thought he'd heard something in the brush at the edge of the clearing, but the moonlight illuminated nothing in the area in front of the house – it was vacant and silent except for the generator's hum, and he turned back to the window. The light thrown from it was dim, as if muted by something.

He saw the reason for that as he took a tentative look over the sash. It was almost too high for him to see over, and he boosted himself by stepping on a large rock sitting submerged in the tall grass and brush next to the building. The room he looked into was dark; the light was coming from a doorway on the back wall. Silhouettes of rusting sinks squatted in the dimness, and he got a glimpse of hooks hanging overhead. He didn't have time to process what they were, however; his eyes had found the doorway, and his attention was riveted by the sight of a dark head and part of shoulder, lying on a table, bathed in the bright light that came spilling out of the doorway. Only the top of the head and the shoulder were visible from that angle, but he would know those curls anywhere. He took in his breath sharply, his heart pounding painfully.

According to procedure, he should go back up the road to his SUV and call for help – if he had a working phone from which to call. He knew, though, before his foot even found its way from the rock back to solid ground, that he was going in. Something was going on in that room, something was happening or about to happen to Charlie; and that had settled the question before it was even asked.

In the end, it didn't matter. A mutt, part beagle, made the decision a moot point. As Don stepped down, a bark sounded behind him, sending his already pounding heart into his throat. He spun around, and the dog, which stood stiff-legged a few feet away, growled; then produced a torrent of excited barks. The light behind him went out, and Don ducked instinctively, making sure his head wasn't visible in the window. There was no doubt now – he was going in.

He crouched and crept around to the corner to the entrance, and he paused, doubled over, as he reached it. The door had panes of glass in the upper half, and he eased his way underneath them to the other side, and gripped the doorknob with one hand, his pistol in the other. The dog had backed away, its hackles raised, growling. He took a deep breath, and wrenched the door open, darting inside, still crouched, both hands on the gun extended in front of him.

There was nothing, no sound, except the ceaseless hum of the generator, which was quieter inside. He crept through the sinks and the squares of moonlight coming from the windows, knees bent, head down a little, his service weapon pointing the way, nosing here and there as if it had a mind of its own. As he reached the doorway on the back wall, he dashed across the opening quickly and plastered himself against the wall next to it. He scanned the room he was in quickly from his new angle, looking for a form behind the sinks. Nothing. If there was someone in this building, he very likely was still in the small room with Charlie, unless there was another doorway out. He counted to three under his breath, and went in.

He whirled around the doorjamb and came in gun first. It was completely dark in the small room, like a tomb, and a noise came from the back right corner. He swiveled toward it and suddenly there was motion and sound to his right and behind him – a body moving. He started to spin back towards it, but it struck him before he could get turned around – a full body hit to the shoulder that drove him staggering sideways. At the same time, something hit him on the back of the head, stunning him, as he stumbled sideways into something solid – undoubtedly the table. He felt a searing pain in his left shoulder, and caught a glimpse of a dark form in the doorway, and then the outline of the doorway was gone, turned into blackness with the metallic slam of a door. He squeezed off a shot just as it shut, but there was only the sick sound of a bullet striking metal, and then almost immediately after, a soft thunk, as the bullet buried itself in a wall.

Shaking his head to clear it, he flung himself at the door, scrabbling in the dark for a handle, but when he pulled, the door refused to give. He could feel that it was large and metal, probably insulated, and his gut twisted with new alarm. A door like that generally closed off a vault or a refrigerator, and air sources for those rooms were sometimes optional. The killer had locked them in.

Locked them in – locked _them_ in – he was still assuming Charlie was in here. He turned and felt for the table, and found a metal corner. It felt wet, and he realized the wetness wasn't from the table – it was from him. He lifted his left hand to his nose, and he could smell the blood – it was running down his arm from a gash in his shoulder, which he'd gotten when he was pushed against that same table. He felt along it cautiously and encountered something soft, and instinctively jerked his hand away, before he realized what it was. He reached out again, exploring. There was no doubt, it was the same head; the same curls he'd seen from the window. "Charlie?" he said urgently, in a soft voice, and he switched the gun to his bloody hand, and felt frantically for a pulse with his right. There was a pulse – not strong, but steady, and he exhaled shakily. "Charlie?"

His fingers found a chin, a cheek, unresponsive, motionless. He could feel soft breath on his hand, which seemed oddly controlled – short, very regular. The feel of it suddenly dissolved the hard core of despair that had been building inside of him over the last several days, emotion welled up inside him, and he sagged against the table, his head hanging over his brother's, exhaling, the sound almost a sob. "Charlie," he whispered in a voice thick with feeling, "It's going to be okay, Buddy, I'm here."

His eyes were growing accustomed to the blackness – there must be at least a faint source of light, he reasoned, because no eye could see in total darkness. He felt cool air and looked up behind him. Night sky was visible through a small rectangular opening high in the wall, which had once been a port for some type of vent. He could hear the generator through it, and it answered one question – they would have air, at least. He froze, as the slam of the van's door reached his ears. A short moment later, he heard the sound of the van's engine, revving, and then tires on gravel, the noise receding. The killer had left them alone, in the middle of nowhere.

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Ryan Morgan slammed the door to the walk-in refrigerator, and fumbled with the hasp and padlock on the outside of it, jumping at the gun report on the inside. An obviously trained agent with a gun – it may have been Eppes; he wasn't sure, it was too dark – he could only see a silhouette in the doorway when the agent entered. He must have followed him here, and had probably called it in – there must be more agents, police on the way. As the agent had entered, Ryan had stood in the corner near the doorway, and had thrown his scalpel in the back corner to create a noise. It had distracted the agent for a split second, long enough for Ryan to land a wild punch and to shove him, and then duck out the door.

He made sure the door was locked and dashed outside, stirring up the mutt again, who barked from a shadowy spot at the edge of the yard. The moonlight in the clearing was bright, almost like daylight, and the area under the trees was dark and silent. Morgan hesitated, then decided to take the chance – he ran in and grabbed his few possessions from the house – his precious store of syringes chief among them. He tossed them in the back of the van, and was away, praying to get out on Big Bear Road before they trapped him.

He was well down the gravel road when his heart leapt into his throat – he'd spotted the SUV, parked in a spot a little over half a mile from the main road, but he realized, almost at the same time, that it must be the agent's vehicle. He gunned the gas and tore past it, making a right on Big Bear Road, heading west, into the night.

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Don stood silently for a moment, senses razor sharp; listening for a moment after the sound of the van had faded. Unless the man had an accomplice, which he highly doubted, they were alone. The threat gone, he turned back to Charlie. His brother's lack of responsiveness was causing fear to grow inside him again, and he felt gingerly along the table, looking for the source of the light he had seen earlier. His hand hit wetness, slick and slippery, and he froze for a moment, knowing without seeing that it was blood. His heart was starting to thump painfully now, and he threw caution aside, groping frantically, as he moved to his right, down the table. His foot hit something and he stopped, swinging an arm out to his right, and it contacted a metal pole. It nearly went over, but somehow he grabbed it, and felt around the top of it awkwardly with his right hand. It was a studio work light, and he found the switch and flicked it on, wincing in pain as the bright light hit his eyes. Probably the same light the killer had used to film the videos, he reflected, as he turned…

He took in a breath, and stood motionless, arms half extended in front of him. The gaunt nude figure on the slab barely resembled his brother; barely resembled a live body. He'd seen corpses that looked better. Charlie was covered ugly bruises, both eyes blackened, his lower lip swollen and split. It was the blood, though, that rendered Don motionless, the blood covering his torso and dripping onto the table, the blood, and the six-inch gash in Charlie's abdomen. It was so shocking, it took a moment for him to realize his brother's eyes were open, and his lips were moving soundlessly. For a wild moment, Don had an image of a slash horror film; in which the corpse awoke and rose from the table – the walking dead.

He came to his senses and grabbed a towel – there was a pile of them there, and blotted gently at Charlie's abdomen, and gingerly pulled at an edge to inspect the wound. The cut was deep, through skin, but he could see what looked like muscle underneath. At least the gash hadn't entered the abdominal cavity. He pressed the towel on the wound gently with one hand, undoing the straps that bound Charlie to the table with the other, and looked into his brother's face. "Charlie. Charlie, it's Don. Can you hear me?"

He reached a hand out and gently moved a curl aside, but neither the touch nor the words seemed to have any effect. Charlie's eyes, at least one of them - the other seemed to be swollen shut - were focused on the ceiling. Every now and then, his lips would move but there was no sound, not even a whisper. Don felt a cold tendril of fear creep around his heart. As if in response, Charlie shuddered, and began to tremble. His gaze, though, was still fixed on some unknown point, a place not of this world. '_Broken bird…_'

Don looked around wildly for clothing or a blanket. Cool mountain air was seeping in through the hole in the wall, and he feared Charlie might be going into shock. There was nothing but towels, and he eyed them for a moment, then grabbed them and set them on the floor near the wall. He returned to the table and gently worked his arms under Charlie's body, one under his shoulders and one under Charlie's legs, lifting him with a grunt of pain as agony knifed through his upper arm, which was making its own contribution to the pools and droplets of blood on the table and the floor. He backed up against the wall and slid to a sitting position, and then turned Charlie so he was sitting on his lap, his back to Don, his legs resting on Don's legs. Over Charlie's shoulder, he could see blood streaming from the wound in his abdomen, and he grabbed towels, bundling them around Charlie, laying one over his legs, hoping the towels and his body heat would keep Charlie warm enough to fend off shock.

Finally in position, he wrapped his arms around his brother, and pressed a towel to the gash in his stomach. Charlie's head was resting on his shoulder, and he leaned his cheek lightly against it, feeling the curls tickle his face. He knew they were in a bad situation; the other agents wouldn't even realize he was gone until morning, and then it could take a while to find him, and that was only if a signal could be picked up from his phone.

If not… He wouldn't think about that possibility. He'd finally found his brother, alive, and he refused to consider the alternative. "It's going to be okay, Charlie," he said again, firmly, with conviction. His words rang against the cold tile walls, echoing faintly, as if in mockery.

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End Chapter 28


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, gang, it's good to be back._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 29**

"Hey, look who's here!" Agent Pete Nieman looked up, sympathy on his face, as Allison Cook came through the door. It was just before six a.m., and he was clustered around the conference room table with Colby, Megan, David, and Jill Cash, sharing coffee. Allison shuffled in with her own mug and sank into a chair. Her shoulder length dark hair stood out in contrast to her face, which was pale, except for the ugly knot, already dark, on the right side of her forehead, near her hairline. Pete frowned. "Should you be in here?"

She nodded. "I was released last night. They watched me for a couple of hours and let me go." At his skeptical expression, she made a face. "My dad's a doctor, don't forget. I'm okay."

SAC John McKelvey strode into the room, followed by Agent Jay Rome, and an older, graying, lean man in a Denver PD uniform. "I told her to take the day off," said McKelvey. "She insisted on coming in."

He indicated the man in uniform, introducing him to the L.A. agents. "This is Lieutenant Dave Riley from Denver PD. I've asked him to sit in on our meetings." Riley nodded at agents, and murmured greetings were exchanged. McKelvey looked at Allison. "I wasn't kidding about the day off. You don't need to be here."

She smiled ruefully. "It isn't exactly relaxing to sit in your apartment with a guard outside the door. I'd _rather_ be here, trying to figure out who it was."

Colby spoke. "Did you get a look at him?"

"Just a glimpse," she said. "Long dark hair, dark eyes, and a mustache and a small beard, like a goatee. He was tall, built." Her eyes narrowed a bit, thoughtfully. "He seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn't place him – although I really didn't get a good look."

David eyed her sympathetically. "Someone you put away, maybe?"

She shook her head, frowning. "I don't know, but I don't think so. I can't think of anyone I busted who looks like that."

Megan took a sip of her coffee, well aware that Agent Rome was eyeing her appreciatively, and ignoring him, despite his dark good looks. Not her type, she thought to herself with small smile, thinking of Larry. "It's not likely it was a random mugging or assault, on this property," she said. "The guy would have to know it's the FBI headquarters."

"Maybe he's our guy." Jill Cash spoke from the corner. Her words were quiet, but she might as well have set off a bomb in the room. The others turned to stare at her.

"His clue indicated a blonde," David reminded her. "Agent Cook is a brunette."

"And we already know he's abandoned his plans once and gone after another victim when the protection made his target impossible to get to," countered Jill. "Allison is associated with the SAC."

"Actually, she may be right," said McKelvey solemnly. "We have cameras set up in the parking garage at the exit point for each level. I had an agent go through them this morning, and had him look for someone who was exiting around that time who matched Allison's description." He tossed some eight by ten photos on the table. "These are prints from the video. Check out what he's driving."

"A panel van," said Pete, as a look of comprehension crossed his face. "It's blue, but otherwise it fits the vehicle description."

Colby peered at the photos. The camera was mounted slightly higher than the vehicle, and looked down into the windshield. It would ordinarily provide a decent view of the occupant, but the visor was pulled down, obscuring the man's face from the nose up. "He pulled the visor down."

McKelvey nodded. "He was obviously aware of the cameras. He'd likely been here before, because he had the visor down when he came in, too, which according to the surveillance video was around 10:40 p.m."

Allison frowned. "That wasn't too long before I got there. If he were targeting me specifically, how would he have known I'd be coming in that time of night? He couldn't have – he had to have picked me at random."

"That doesn't rule out the fact that he might be our man – he might have been trying for any female victim from this building, in the hopes he'd hit someone with an association with Agent McKelvey," said Pete.

"On the other hand, the van might just be coincidence," conceded McKelvey.

Colby continued to study the pictures. "There's a car behind him in this one, and you can see the plate number. Maybe that guy saw something."

McKelvey nodded. "We already checked out the plate, and called him. He's a clerk in the law offices. He didn't see anything – said the van came down just before he pulled out, and he pulled in behind him. He didn't notice anything in particular, other than the guy seemed to be in a hurry. We talked to the attendant managing the exit booth, too. He really couldn't give us any better description than Allison did. We've got a plate though, and an APB out for the van." He glanced at his watch, and shot a look back out into the bullpen. "Where's Eppes?"

"I tried calling him," said David. "Both his cell phone and his room. He didn't answer." He pulled out his phone. "I'll try him again."

McKelvey held up a hand. "He looked like he'd been run over by a truck when he left last night. Let him rest – it looked like he needed it. Wright's in some phone meetings this morning; he said to go ahead." He looked at Jay Rome. "Okay, Jay, you got the reports from all the surveillance groups. Why don't you go through them?"

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Don felt movement, and opened his eyes, jerking awake. Charlie was slipping, and Don grabbed him more tightly, and propped him back into position. He blinked; he felt weak and fuzzyheaded, and his legs felt as though they were going numb from the weight of Charlie's body, as light as it was. The room looked different, and he realized that the sun was up and light was streaming through the vent hole, in addition to the work light. He should turn the light off, he thought, to conserve it. He had to get up anyway; he hated to move Charlie any more than he had to, but he had to relieve himself, and he couldn't hold off much longer. It was cool in the room; Charlie had stopped shivering, but as Don eased out from under him, laying him gently on the floor, he started again.

His one eye was still open, and Don, still sitting, peered into his face. "Charlie. Charlie, can you hear me? Look at me." There was no response; Charlie continued to stare at something beyond the confines of the room. His breathing was short and shallow, and there was tension in his body; it wasn't limp. He wasn't blinking normally, either, Don noted – instead, his eyes would close slowly periodically; then open, in a controlled movement. A sick feeling was growing in Don's stomach; was this strange behavior the result of a head injury? The words '_brain damage,_' ran through his mind, and he ran a hand over Charlie's head, fingers gently exploring his scalp, feeling for an injury. There was a small bump on the left, behind Charlie's ear, and that was it – nothing to indicate serious head trauma. Don felt his heart sink. What in the hell was going on here? "Charlie, Buddy," he pleaded. "Say something. Blink at me if you can hear me."

There was no response, and Don dejectedly shifted his gaze to Charlie's torso. The towel on his stomach was half-drenched with blood, but some of it had dried, and Don lifted it and examined the wound hopefully. It did appear that the blood flow was lessening, although as Don looked, he saw a sizable puddle on the floor. His left arm was drenched and sticky with his own blood, and he realized from the position of the puddle it had come from him, primarily. For the first time, he inspected his own wound. It was an ugly gash, still seeping blood, and he looked at the table to see what had caused it. A rusting metal bracket protruded from the table leg, it had undoubtedly torn his arm open when he was pushed against it. He picked up a smaller towel from the pile, and awkwardly tied it around his arm. Not tight enough, but it would have to do.

Charlie's shivering was increasing again, and Don realized he needed to take care of business so he could hold him again. He struggled to his feet, and the room pitched and whirled around him for a moment. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself, and then staggered across the floor to a rusting floor drain, kicking the top of it off. After he finished, he turned carefully back and shuffled toward Charlie, stopping to turn off the work light to conserve the bulb. The room, now lit only by the sunlight seeping in through the vent hole, reeled around him. Couldn't afford to pass out – Charlie needed him.

He made it back to the wall and eased himself down, gingerly. He felt much steadier in a sitting position, and he glanced quickly at his watch before he reached for Charlie. Seven-thirty a.m. His team would be up by now, at the office; they should notice he wasn't there. He grabbed Charlie under the shoulders and pulled him back on his lap, trying to ignore the sharp stab in his shoulder. His head spun, and the room darkened for a moment. He could feel a cold sweat on his forehead, but he took a deep breath and pulled Charlie the rest of the way up, leaning his body against him, rearranging the towels. Charlie's wound had apparently begun to knit, barely, but the movement broke it open again, and blood streamed out, not in rivulets, but in a solid sheet, down one side. Don swore softly and grabbed a towel, reaching around Charlie's torso, applying pressure, trying to push the edges together. Charlie's cheek was right next to his, and Don turned his head, craning his neck to look at him as Charlie's good eye finally fluttered shut. He felt his brother's body go limp, the tension finally leaving it along with consciousness, and he swallowed hard, trying to control his growing fear.

"Come on, guys," he whispered. "We need you."

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Colby glanced at his watch, as Megan walked back into the conference room. "Almost nine-thirty. You hear from David?"

She shook her head, her forehead furrowed with worry. "We should have heard from Don by now, and I'm sure David would have called us from the hotel if he'd found him."

Lieutenant Dave Riley leafed through the file in front of him, and spoke, his eyes still on the contents. "I remember this case. I had just made detective. There was bunch of gutted animals left at a butcher shop out near Idledale. We never did find who did it, but I always thought the guy was still out there. From time to time, someone would find a gutted animal in a landfill, off to the side of the road, maybe in a vacant lot. They were flayed, and laid out, a lot like this guy's victims."

McKelvey looked at Jill and Megan. "What do you think? You think there's a connection there?"

"Could be," replied Jill, her green eyes thoughtful. "It would fit the profile. Animal abuse as a child is a classic marker for an adult serial killer. He might have started with that when he was younger, and something made him snap, turn to human victims."

"If it was the same person we're looking for, it would mean he was from this area, then," said Megan. "Maybe we can look for something that happened in Denver just before the murders started."

"Like what?" asked Pete Nieman.

"Anything," said Megan. "Arrests, accidents, divorces, layoffs, deaths – maybe a family member died, maybe the guy was involved in some kind of altercation. Of course, it could be something for which there is no legal record – maybe the guy got fired, or his significant other dumped him."

"Sounds like a long shot," said Riley.

"Unfortunately, long shots are about all we have here," Wright spoke dryly from the corner. He indicated the pile of files in front of Riley. "Aren't those the files Eppes was going through?"

McKelvey nodded. "Yeah. He must have some of them with him – the pile was bigger than that. Come to think of it, he was carrying a bunch of them when he left last night."

"Maybe he just went somewhere quiet to go through them," said Jay Rome.

Megan shook her head. "You don't know Don. He'd want to be where the action is. And it's not like him to miss a meeting." She looked up as David appeared in the bullpen, striding toward them. "There's David."

David pulled up in the doorway, a bit breathlessly. "I don't have anything. He's not at the hotel – I had the management open his room. His bed hadn't been slept in, and the rental SUV is not in the parking lot. I think we need to try to get a GPS trace on his phone."

Real alarm was now on Colby's and Megan's faces, as Pete Nieman rose. "I'll get someone right on it. Do you have his number?"

Megan jotted it down for him, quickly. "We have phones with the new type of GPS chip," she said. "The user doesn't have to make a call for them to trace it – the phone just has to be on." Pete grabbed the number and pulled out his own cell phone, stepping into the corner of the room to make the call.

"What time did he leave last night?" asked Jill.

McKelvey frowned. "It was around eleven or so – shortly before Allison got here." He glanced at her. "You didn't see him on the way in?"

She shook her head. "No."

"We'd assumed he'd already left for the night," said McKelvey slowly, "before the assault happened. We'd figured if he'd have been there, he'd have come to Agent Cook's aid."

Allison's brows knitted. "Maybe not. The two guys who helped me got there fast. If Eppes saw that I was okay, and thought he could apprehend the perp…"

"We need to get a look at the rest of that garage surveillance tape," said Wright sharply.

McKelvey swung the computer monitor on the table around, and pulled the keyboard toward him. "I've got it downloaded into the file. I can bring it up here." He pulled up the video, opened it, and fast-forwarded. "The guy who ran this for me didn't know what Eppes looked like. Even if he saw him in the video, he wouldn't have known…there. This is the garage exit. We can start here and work backwards if we need to."

"There's the van," said Jill, her eyes on the monitor, which showed the blue van pulling into view of the exit camera. They watched the suspect pay the lot attendant.

"And there's the clerk," added Colby, his voice rising with excitement, "and there's another vehicle behind him – it's Don – that's the rental SUV!"

They watched, dumbfounded, as the SUV turned right, the same direction as the van. "If he was in pursuit, why wouldn't he call in?" asked Jay.

"Probably because he couldn't," said David, urgency in his voice. "He didn't have a radio in that vehicle, and his cell phone was acting up yesterday – it might not have been working. In fact, when I tried to reach him on it just a little while ago, I kept getting a message that said, 'This cell phone user is not currently available.' I couldn't even get his voice mail."

Pete snapped his phone shut, and stepped from the corner. "Yeah, that's a problem. According to the phone company, it went dead four hours ago. The best they could do was to give us the last location transmitted."

"Which is where?" Wright demanded. The agents were rising to their feet, before Pete could answer.

"You'll never guess," Pete said, his face set grimly. "About two miles outside Idledale."

"Holy crap!" exclaimed Lieutenant Riley. "That old butcher shop. Ho-_lee_ crap!"

Wright turned to McKelvey and Riley. "Get your teams together, pronto." He looked at Megan, David, and Colby who all looked as though they were ready to bolt for their vehicles. "No cowboys here – you go in as a team. McKelvey's calling the shots. Let's do this the right way."

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Don glanced worriedly at his watch. Ten-thirty. He watched as Charlie's eyes fluttered open again – eyes plural this time, just barely. The inflammation seemed to be receding in the one that had been swollen shut, and it opened just a crack. "Charlie?"

No response again. Charlie stared straight forward, off into some nether region. His body tensed again; Don could feel rigidness returning to the limbs, and his breathing went from slow-and-relaxed to short-and-fast, at a mechanical tempo. No blinks, just the steady, controlled closing of the eyes. "Controlled," was the operative word here, everything was controlled, even the reflexive functions, like blinking and breathing. His lips were moving, and Don craned his neck to watch them, trying to figure out what his brother was mouthing. "Say it louder, Charlie, I can't hear you."

For just a moment or two, Charlie breathed life into the words, raising his voice to a whisper, but it seemed as though he wasn't doing it in response to Don's request so much as trying to drown him out. Don caught some unintelligible pieces of letters, words and numbers – some type of equation, he realized. Hearing it didn't make him feel any better. It smacked of insanity, or at least some kind of mental break; it reminded Don of Charlie's retreat into his analysis of P vs. NP, only worse. He could see signs of the physical ordeal his brother had suffered, but the emotional trauma that had caused this had to have been worse, at least from Charlie's viewpoint. Don hated to think what it must have entailed, who knew what Charlie had gone through at that maniac's hands?

"Charlie," he said softly. "I know it was hard, what you went through. You have to know though, it's okay now. He's gone." He paused, and leaned his head against his brother's curls. "He's gone now." His voice cracked a little, and dropped to a whisper, as tears welled in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Charlie – I should have thought – God, I'm sorry. I won't let him get to you again, I promise. Just – come back, okay?" He felt the body slump in his arms and lifted his head to see Charlie's eyes fluttering closed again. "Charlie? Charlie, stay with me – Charlie –," He freed one of his hands from the towels and shakily lifted it up to check for a pulse, but it froze in midair. Over the hum of the generator, he could clearly hear the sound of tires, crunching on gravel.

He fumbled for his service revolver, trying to fish it back out of his shoulder holster, worming his hand under Charlie's body. He'd just gotten a grip on it when a sharp 'thunk' sounded at the door, the unmistakable sound of a crowbar hitting a lock. The door flew inward, and the resulting opening framed Colby, whose eyes widened. He raised his hands, startled, as David appeared in the doorway behind him. "Don't shoot, Don – it's us."

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End Chapter 29


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Oh, no, we haven't seen the last of Ryan Morgan. _

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 30**

Megan heard the shout outside, but she, Nieman, and Rome completed the sweep of the house, weapons drawn, pouring into one room after another, covering each other, the three of them moving as one unit, with fluid grace. Finally, satisfied the house was empty, she gave the other agents a nod and sprinted outside, over to the attached building. A police car had been pulled across the road to block any possible escape, and now that they were sure the killer was gone, an officer was moving it, allowing an ambulance to come through, rocking, lumbering on the uneven gravel road. Wright was in the clearing in front of the house, barking orders, waving the ambulance through. She entered the meatpacking building, pushing through the officers, to a doorway in the back. It was a much smaller room, and McKelvey, Riley, Jill, David, and Colby were already inside, but she wormed her way in anyway.

Jill, normally sharp, outgoing and unflappable; was standing silently, rooted in shock, and Megan followed her eyes to the floor. A badly beaten corpse that resembled Charlie was lying on Don, who was propped against the wall, and Colby was squatting next to them, taking Charlie's pulse. Don looked on, his own face chalk white, his left arm drenched in blood and bearing a nasty gash. He still had his arms around his brother, who was wrapped in towels; Colby had wisely kept them both in position until the medics got there. "It's okay, Don, I've got a pulse," Colby was saying.

McKelvey turned and shouted out the door, "Get those medics in here!" and Megan moved forward, past David, kneeling on the other side of Don, across from Colby. Don looked at her wordlessly, misery and fear in his face.

"It's okay, Don," she said quietly, unconsciously echoing Colby's statement. "The medics will take care of him. We've got him, now, you can relax." Her eyes traveled to Charlie's face. Apart from the mess of tangled curls, he was barely recognizable – he did not at all resemble the smiling, eager face her mind conjured up when she thought of Charlie. Both eyes were black, one quite swollen, and the entire left side of the pale face was bruised. A dark split in a swollen lower lip contrasted with the lip color itself, also pale, almost as pale as the skin, due to blood loss. An exposed shoulder and lower legs revealed more bruising, and the towel that was pressed to his stomach was bloody, some of it fresh, some of it dried and turning dark. Don still clutched it in his hands, putting pressure on the wound, his own arms trembling with the effort. She laid her hand on his; they felt sticky, cold. "Don, relax, you can let go, they're here."

He turned his face toward the medics as they emerged through the doorway, and finally let up on the towel as Colby and Megan stood, and moved aside with the others. One of the medics spoke to him, eying the wound in his shoulder. "Okay, sir, can you tell us where his injury is?"

Don voice was rusty, shaky. "His stomach. He's got a six-inch gash above the navel. It's deep, but it didn't look like it penetrated the abdominal wall."

"Okay, just lie still for a minute. We're going to take a look at him; then we will lift him off you." Don gave a short nod and pulled his arms back enough to allow them access, although he looked reluctant to do so, and the medic gently began to peel off towels.

The group took a collective breath as Charlie's body was exposed, and Megan felt a stab of pain at the sight. Charlie was almost skeletal, frail looking, his nude body covered with bruises and blood, both dried and fresh, with an ugly gash running from his navel up toward his sternum. Many of the agents and law enforcement officers turned their heads as the medics gently lifted him off Don and onto the gurney. Don immediately tried to scramble to his feet, and got halfway up before he fell against the wall, his face suddenly going blank. Colby grabbed his arm. "Whoa, stay put there, man." He eased Don, who had beads of cold sweat on his face; gently back down into a sitting position.

"I'm okay," grunted Don, and he shook his head a little to clear it. "I'm going with him."

A medic spoke over his shoulder, as they finished settling Charlie on the gurney. "He's right, sir, just stay where you are for a minute. We'll take you in another ambulance."

Don shook his head again, stubbornly. "You can take me in the same one – I'm going with him."

The medic gave a quite order to two of his partners. "Try to get an IV started." He turned back to Don, and squatted next to him, pulling his stethoscope toward Don's chest and listening to his heart. "Look," he said, as he withdrew the stethoscope. "That would be fine if I thought you could make the trip the whole way, but I don't, and if you crash for some reason, we wouldn't be able to deal with you. It would just inhibit our ability to take care of him. Are you related?"

"He's my brother." Don was listening to the medic, but his eyes were on Charlie.

"Okay, I promise you, we'll take you to the same place, and you'll be able to see him as soon as the doctors let you."

Jill Cash stepped up next to Charlie's gurney, and said quietly. "I'll stay with him."

Her eyes met Don's, and he stared back, and then reluctantly nodded. "Okay." The word was weak, without conviction, and brought home to Megan just how shaken Don was by the events. She stood watching in silent support, along with Colby and David, as Charlie was wheeled out, and another gurney brought in for Don.

McKelvey stepped forward as they situated Don on the gurney. "Don't worry about him – we'll have protection on him the whole way there, and at the hospital. We'll see you there."

"I'll go with Don," said Megan. Her voice was soft, but firm – a statement, not a request.

McKelvey nodded at her, and Don looked at Colby. "Call my dad."

"You got it."

The gurney rolled outside, and Megan saw Don twist on the gurney, craning his neck to see where Charlie was. He'd already been put in the ambulance, and they watched as it backed up, allowing another ambulance to exit the narrow drive and pull forward, and then rolled past it, out of sight. Don turned back to look at her, fear and uncertainty in his face. "There's something wrong with him."

It was such an understatement; she wasn't sure how to take it. "How - what do you mean?"

"He was conscious part of the time, but he wouldn't look at me, wouldn't talk – except to himself. He wasn't even breathing or blinking right." Don's voice shook, and he looked at her as if he expected her to give him an answer.

The medics started to push his gurney toward the ambulance, and she walked with it, without any idea of what to say. She settled for, "He's been through a lot, Don – it's probably just shock. Let's take it one step at a time, okay? Let the doctors do their jobs."

He swallowed and dropped his eyes, and then nodded and closed them, the worry still etched on his face.

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Jill Cash sat across from the medic in the ambulance, glancing absently at his hands as they adjusted a blood pressure cuff. Her eyes flitted back immediately to Charlie's unresponsive face, which was seemingly holding them captive, and her heart was apparently being held also, in some kind of torture chamber – it felt as though it was being squeezed in a vise. She looked down at his hand and reached for it, tentatively, with a guilty glance at the medic, who was too busy with his equipment to notice. She curled her fingers around Charlie's; his hand felt cold, and she adjusted her grip, trying to lend warmth with her own hand. The gesture was meant to be reassuring, but considering that Charlie appeared to be completely out, she couldn't deny the fact that the reassurance was meant for her.

Just to hold his hand for a moment meant so much, felt so ridiculously good, in spite of the circumstances. She'd spent long hours praying they would find him; she was in love with someone she barely knew, and the chances of getting to know him better at this point were dismally slim. The medic looked worried and she knew there was a chance Charlie might not make it, but she refused to consider that. Even if he did make it, she knew, the mental trauma following such an ordeal might render him incapable of or unwilling to enter a relationship for a long time to come. Chances were good that she would need to content herself for the foreseeable future with this moment, this brief contact, and so she held on, not letting go until they reached their destination, and even then, she took hold of his hand again as soon as he was out of the ambulance. She trotted alongside the gurney, and didn't relinquish her grasp until they went to push Charlie through the doors of the ER, and a medic laid a restraining hand on her arm.

"I've been assigned to watch him," she protested, and flipped open her ID. "FBI."

He hesitated; then jerked his head as he followed the gurney through the doors. "Come on, then. You can take it up with the doctor." She followed him in, and doors swung shut behind them.

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Ryan Morgan stood back to examine his handiwork, the hand holding the paint can shaking slightly. He'd watched the auto shop workers in Taos paint his van, and he came away from that with a good idea of how to tape it off for a quick paint job. As soon as he came to a town large enough to hold an auto parts store, he stopped, waiting until it was open. There, he bought several cans of black auto paint, enough to cover the van, along with tape and plastic, and drove out to a remote location in the woods to paint the vehicle. He'd already changed the plates; he had a couple of extra sets, and he tossed the ones that had been on the van since Taos. He needed to find a motel room and alter his appearance again, but first, he needed to cut.

The paint on the back of the van was already dry, and he tossed the can of paint aside, opened the doors, and dragged the ragged drunk unceremoniously out of them, onto the ground. He'd picked him up in the wee hours of the morning, knocking him on the head as he staggered through the outskirts of Grand Junction. The man was ancient, filthy and disgusting, but Morgan was beyond need. The old man's wide, terrified eyes stared at him over the tape on his mouth, and Morgan, who had retrieved his bag of syringes and vials, bent to inject him with suxamethonium chloride. It was a paralytic agent that rendered victims immobile, although conscious. He didn't use it often, because it generally required the victim to be intubated to ensure proper breathing, and he was only using it now because he had no good way to tie the man down. He had to work quickly, and he cut the man's bonds before the drug even had fully taken effect.

He stripped the tape off the man's mouth – he was going to need all the air he could get. The man batted feebly at his arms, but he was already losing control. Within seconds, he was still, his mouth gaping open, revealing rotten teeth, his chest barely moving. His eyes had drifted shut; Morgan ordinarily would prefer them open, but at the moment, he didn't care; he was in too much of a hurry to tape the eyelids. He stripped the man of his clothes, hurriedly, and began.

An hour later, he was done. It had provided some measure of relief, but it was a poor substitute for Eppes. The man was dirty, his old skin was papery and flimsy, and didn't cut or strip well. Morgan had done a sloppy job, partly because of the skin quality, partly because his disgust made him enjoy it less, partly because the raging need drove him to hurry. Still it was enough to clear his head. He sat down, panting, on a nearby rock, to think.

He turned different scenarios over in his mind, but he kept returning to one unalterable fact. Charles Eppes was the only person who could truly connect him with the killings. He was the only person alive who had seen him kill, and he was only person alive who could make a positive ID – who knew what the killer looked like. What Morgan really wanted was to finish the job he started – to cut him, but if necessary, he would content himself with simply killing him. Of course, there was the chance that Eppes had died, or would die, of his injuries. If not, however, Morgan would need to finish the job. He would never be safe from the law unless he did, no matter how far he ran.

Going back to Denver, however, at this point in time, was impossible. Even with his appearance altered yet again and the van painted it was too risky. It was better to wait for the professor to return home. By then, the law would be letting its guard down – and it was always possible that Eppes would return home in a casket. If not, Morgan would be waiting for him. He rose with a last look at the old man, his lip curled in contempt and loathing. '_Filthy pig. You're dirty, filthy…,_' He climbed into his van and headed for the highway, and turned west.

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End Chapter 30


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: The University of Colorado Hospital is a real place. My description of the layout, however, is purely fictional._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 31**

It took all Don had to endure the ride up to his room from the ER. He was lying on a wheeled hospital bed, pushed by an African-American orderly in his early thirties named LaVonte, who moved with a jiving, lop-sided stride. He was inordinately cheerful, with an in-your-face brashness that normally would have been entertaining, but, for Don at the moment, was grating. He was dying for word on Charlie – his brother had arrived at the University of Colorado Hospital a good half hour before he had, and Don had been in the ER himself for an hour and a half, and he still had no word on Charlie's condition.

The entered an elevator, and he eyed the attendant's nametag. "Hey, Lavont."

"That's LaVonte. La-VON-tay, my man."

"Right. What do I dial for patient information when I'm in my room?"

LaVonte looked thoughtful. "Damn – I surely don't know. I'll have to ask the nurse." He grinned, revealing a wide toothy smile that looked like a mouthwash commercial. "I'll get you the _head_ nurse. That's a fine woman, there."

Don bit back a sigh, and stared up at the unit of blood dangling from the gurney. It was his second, and was almost empty. Maybe once it was done, they'd let him up.

The doors opened, and LaVonte pushed him through, his shoulders moving up and down rhythmically with his exaggerated stride. He bobbed his head and nodded at every single female in the hallway, flashing his white teeth so often, his face looked like a strobe. "There she is. That's Nurse Gonzalez. Now _look_ at her, is she not _fine_?"

"Fine," muttered Don.

LaVonte was unfazed by his lack of enthusiasm, and wheeled Don into his room, still smiling. He moved the bed into place and deftly locked the wheels. "So, how'd you get hurt?"

Don shot him a dour glance. Hospital personnel were instructed not to ask personal questions, but apparently, LaVonte wasn't big on protocol. He answered anyway. "Occupational hazard – I got in a scuffle with a suspect."

LaVonte eyed him, his eyes bright with interest. "Let me guess – fed, right?"

Grudging acknowledgment appeared on Don's face. "Yeah."

"I knew it, I _knew_ it," LaVonte crowed. "F-B-_I._" He said the letters slowly, with relish, the emphasis on the 'I.' "My brother's a fed, in Chicago. He's jus' like a black version of you – all proper an' uptight an' shit. Damn, I'm good."

"LaVonte, are you bothering this gentleman?"

The voice came from behind, and LaVonte turned, just as a rather large Latino woman swept in – the same one he'd pointed out in the hallway. "Ms. Gonzalez," he said politely, and stood grinning like a fool.

She raised an eyebrow. "Thank you, LaVonte. You can go now."

LaVonte turned to Don and winked, the million-watt smile still in place, then sauntered out with his lopsided street walk.

Nurse Gonzalez came forward and looked at Don's chart, attached to the foot of his bed. "I'm Nurse Gonzalez," she announced unnecessarily. Her voice was pleasant, but rang with a comfortable authority. "I apologize for LaVonte – we're constantly reprimanding him, but the odd thing is we never get a complaint from the patients. They seem to like him. If he was out of line, I'm sorry."

Don waved a hand wearily. LaVonte was the least of his worries. "No, he wasn't."

She continued. "I'm the head nurse on this floor. Sheri will be taking care of you this afternoon; she'll be in shortly. Is there anything you need in particular?"

"Yeah, my brother is here somewhere – I'd like to know what his condition is," said Don.

She glanced at the tense, pale face in the bed; then looked at the chart. "Same last name?"

"Yes, first name Charles. He came in over two hours ago."

"I'll see if I can locate his doctor. Anything else?"

"When will I be released?"

She raised an eyebrow again. "You just got here. When your doctor says you can go. Right now, it looks like you're in here at least overnight." She saw him look over her shoulder, and his expression changed. She turned to see two people in the doorway, and took their appearance as her exit cue. "Sheri will be bringing in another IV," she said as she moved with regal grace around them.

Megan and David edged past her into the room. "They finally said we could come up," said Megan. "How are you feeling?"

"_I'm_ fine," Don replied, a little impatiently. "I want to know about Charlie. No one will tell me anything."

"He's out of surgery," said David. "They stitched him back up, and he's getting several units of blood. They brought some X-ray machines in, and they're doing that now. When he's stable enough, they're going to take him for a CAT scan."

Don could feel a huge knot of tension release inside him. Granted, Charlie probably wasn't out of the woods, but it sounded like things were looking up for him, at least physically. "Is he conscious yet?"

Megan's brow furrowed. "No." She hesitated for a moment; then continued, quietly. "It's probably a good thing – I had McKelvey ask them to do a rape kit while he's under." Don's face tightened; and she paused again, but when he remained silent, she continued. "I think they're doing that right after X-ray. That alone will take at least a couple of hours."

An uncomfortable silence fell; then David's face cleared a bit as he thought of a way to change the subject. "Your dad's on his way here – he called right away when Colby called him earlier, and snagged a seat on a commuter flight. He called Colby back from LAX an hour ago. He'll be taking off any time now, if he hasn't already."

He might as well have been speaking to a wall, Don was brooding, his gaze on his blanket-draped feet. "Do they have protection on him? Charlie?"

Megan nodded. "McKelvey's setting up something with Riley, but in the meantime, Jill Cash, Colby, and Jay Rome are there. We'll watch over him, you just relax."

Don shifted impatiently, scowling at the end of the bed. "I_ am_ relaxed," he lied. "I feel fine. What I'd like to do is get out of here and go see him."

"You can't do that now, anyway, he's being treated," Megan reasoned. "Just rest for now. We're going back down; we'll keep you informed."

They turned to go. "Wait," said Don, turning his head to look at them. "What about the suspect? Anything?"

They shook their heads regretfully, and his expression turned pleading. "If Charlie wakes up, come back and tell me right away – someone he knows should be with him."

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Charlie felt the outside before he even opened his eyes, and stiffened, preparing himself. As if from far off, he heard a voice say, "His respiration rate changed. We'd better hurry this up; he might be coming out of it." It was outside; however, he was floating safely in space, far away from the voices, the lights, the hands… He stiffened slightly; the hands were touching places they shouldn't, and he pushed back a spiraling sense of panic. Breathe. Control. Analysis. He forced his mind back out into the darkness, among the stars, and without realizing it, opened his eyes. The outside – the noise, the lights, the hands – faded away, faint sensations in the distance. Safe here, inside was safe…

"Sir, can you hear me?" Doctor Chapman looked into her patient's face, her own bearing a puzzled frown. The young man had opened his eyes, but wasn't focusing. "Mr. Eppes?" She looked up at the technicians, one of whom was holding a light over the patient's lower extremities. "Are you almost done?"

The tech with the light nodded. "We just need to get the swabs. You want to knock him out for this?"

The ER doctor looked back at her patient. "I don't know," she murmured to the tech. "Looking at him now, I'm worried about a head injury. Just keep going, and if he starts to freak out, I'll sedate him." In a louder voice, she said, "Sir, you're at the hospital. We're just doing some routine tests, and then we'll be taking you for a CAT scan." Her patient's lips moved slightly, but there was no other response, and she shook her head, and stepped aside for the phone, lifting and dialing with practiced ease. "This is Dr. Chapman in ER 5. I need a neuro consult and a psych evaluation. If we're not here when they get down, we'll be in Radiology. Thanks."

She hung up and looked back at her patient, still frowning.

The neurologist, Dr. Martin Stein, and the psychiatric consult, Dr. Steven Garamond, were waiting when they got back from Radiology about an hour later. Dr. Chapman normally didn't accompany her patients for their CAT scans, but it was a slow day in the ER, and this one was an exception. She waited and watched while the procedure was performed, observing her patient. He seemed awake, but unresponsive – almost like a waking coma, she mused. From time to time, he would close his eyes, but she could tell he wasn't sleeping; his body was still rigid. She was mightily glad to see help waiting when they got back to the exam room.

Her patient was under some kind surveillance, and one of the female agents who had been waiting at the end of the hall approached as they prepared to go back in. The agent, who had long, honey colored hair, had her eyes on the patient, who at that moment had his own eyes closed. "Has he come to?" she asked.

"He's been in and out," replied Chapman, noncommittally. "He hasn't been too responsive. We'll let you know when we think he's able to talk to someone."

They pushed through the doors, and Martin Stein raised his eyebrows. "What's with the circus?" he asked, with a wave intended to indicate the agents and police in the hallway outside.

Dr. Chapman shook her head. "I don't know. He and his brother came in around the same time – someone said his brother's FBI. They said this one was kidnapped – he was held for several days. They don't know exactly what happened to him during that period." She looked at Steven Garamond. "We did a rape kit, at their request. He had a knife wound, about a six-inch gash in his abdomen, but it didn't penetrate the abdominal cavity. There was some blood loss," she waved her hand at the unit of blood attached to the patient's IV, "and as you can see, he's been badly beaten – category four bruising. Two fractured ribs, and his left wrist is fractured – I have an orthopedic consult coming for that. No serious head injury, however, at least that I could see, nothing that showed up on X-ray. We've got CAT scan results coming. He's really out of it, though – look at him."

The patient's eyes were open again, and Dr. Stein bent over him, shining a small flashlight in the pupils. "Pupils equal and reactive…" he murmured. He moved down the patient's body, tapping, checking reflexes. He moved back up toward his face and stood, frowning, as the patient slowly closed and opened his eyes; then suddenly, brought his hand down in the patient's face, as if he were going to strike him, stopping just short of his nose. There was a slight movement, the faintest tic, a twitch of the cheek muscle, but nothing else, not even a blink. Stein's frown grew deeper, and he exchanged a troubled glance with Garamond. "No blink reflex – he's opening and closing his eyes, but it seems to be voluntary movement – very controlled. His breathing, too, seems controlled, very mechanical. I don't see evidence of brain injury here, although the CAT scan will tell us for sure. He seems to be almost in a meditative state."

Dr. Garamond stepped forward. Chapman eyed him surreptitiously; Dr. Garamond was referred to by every female in the hospital as a stud. He was ridiculously handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes, and better yet, if he knew he looked that way, he didn't act like it. He made Chapman acutely conscious of her hated wavy dark hair and extra ten pounds.

Garamond watched the patient for a moment. "What's his name?"

"Charles Eppes. They said he goes by 'Charlie.' He's a doctor of something – math I think they said."

"Charlie," said Garamond, in an authoritative tone. "Charlie, it's okay, you can wake up now." He waited, watching. No response – the patient's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "There certainly a dissociative aspect to this. I'm going to talk to the police, see if I can get more information on what happened to him. We'll wait for the CAT scan, but if the results are negative for trauma or disease, I'm going to admit him to the psych ward."

"I'm betting the admitting physician is going to recommend your IC unit in psych then, at least for tonight," said Chapman. "He's stable right now, but his blood work is lousy – there's a lot of bruising, and he was apparently starved during captivity. He still needs some blood, too."

Silence descended, and the three of them looked back at the patient, observing as his lids closed; then opened again. Controlled.

"Weird," said Chapman.

Stein grunted in agreement.

Garamond said nothing; he simply watched, silently.

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It was torture; there was no doubt about it. He'd spent days focused solely on retrieving his brother, agonizing over it, nearly going crazy, and now they'd found him, and he couldn't see him. If Charlie had been intact, it might be one thing, but he wasn't – he'd been bleeding, bruised, damaged. The memory of those sightless eyes, the moving lips, sent a thrill of fear through him every time he thought of them. '_Broken bird…_'

Don shifted in his bed impatiently, and switched on the TV again – not to watch it, but to check the time. Two hours – it had been two hours since Megan and David had come up. "How about a phone call, guys?" he muttered to himself irritably. As if in response, his bedside phone rang, and he lunged for it, nearly losing his balance in the process. He pulled the wheeled table closer and managed to snag the receiver, jamming it up to his ear. "Hello? I, ah – hell, I don't care. Just send something." He slammed the receiver back down. Since when did hospitals have patients order from menus, he wondered. Just like freakin' room service…

His thoughts broke off suddenly as Megan appeared in the doorway, by herself, this time.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, yeah," Don waved her in. "What's going on? I've been going nuts up here."

She shook her head regretfully. "I'm sorry. They finally admitted him and sent him to a room. They had at least four doctors in there with him, and they were waiting for CAT scan results."

"Is he conscious?" Don's eyes devoured her face, trying to read her expressions.

"He -," she broke off, searching for words. "He is – sort of. Don, what you described when we left the scene – the unfocused eyes, the lack of response to his surroundings – he's still doing that. They don't know why. They couldn't find any evidence of brain injury – they're admitting him to the psych ward."

"Psych ward!" Don stared at her.

"They assured us he'd be in a room by himself – it's actually an intensive care unit within the psych ward."

"They can't do that – what, do they think that's going to help him, being in there by himself? They should put him in here with me, or me with him, or something. Don't they have any idea what he's gone through?"

"Actually, they do. Wright authorized us to give the psychiatrist the background. His name is Garamond – he seemed pretty good – and he seemed concerned about Charlie. We talked to Allison Cook, who talked to her father – he's chief of surgery here, and he said Garamond is one of the best in the country. In fact, Dr. Cook was going to check in on Charlie, himself, later. He's in good hands, Don."

"I don't give a crap," Don muttered. "He shouldn't be alone."

"Your dad will be here in another hour or so," Megan reminded him, as she rose. "And Colby's just outside the room – he volunteered to stay on guard duty, even though Riley put an assigned guard on the room. The rest of us need to get going. McKelvey and his people left a couple of hours ago – we need to get back on the case."

Don's expression softened as he looked at her. She was being patient with him; he had to give her credit for that. She looked tired, thinner – this case had been tough on all of them. It suddenly hit him how hard they'd worked to bring Charlie back, as if he was one of their own, and he felt a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry – I just, well, thank you, Megan – thanks for all the help."

She smiled, but she looked slightly disconcerted by his words. "Of course we'd help – you, Charlie – well, we're like family, aren't we?"

He smiled at that, the first one in days. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, we are."

He watched her leave, his impatience momentarily derailed, but it came back in a rush as soon she was out of sight. He hit the call button for the nurse's station, and his nurse, Sheri, appeared within seconds.

"Yes, Mr. Eppes?"

"I just heard my brother was taken to a room – I was wondering if I could go see him."

"On this floor?"

"I – no – I don't think so. He's in – the psych ward."

She looked at him strangely, although her round face bore a kind expression. "I'm sorry – your orders say light exercise, which can include walking up and down the hallway, but you aren't allowed to leave this floor until the doctor discharges you. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Don leaned back against his pillow with a sigh. "No. Thanks." He watched as she nodded, and walked away. This wasn't going to work – not at all. He had to see Charlie – even if it was for a few minutes. He wasn't taking 'no' for an answer.

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End Chapter 31


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: I apologize in advance for LaVonte's mouth._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 32**

Alan swung his bag in the trunk as the taxi driver opened it. It was two in the afternoon, Denver time, only one, L.A. time. He'd gotten in the air quickly, but lost an hour to the time zone. That was nothing compared to the year of his life he was sure he'd lost to the stress of the last several days. "How far to the University of Colorado Hospital?"

"It's only a few minutes from the airport."

Alan climbed into the back seat with an impatient sigh. "Thank God," he muttered.

"What was that, sir?"

"Nothing – there'll be an extra tip if you hurry."

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Don reached for the phone on the bedside stand, and dialed "O."

"Operator. How can I connect you?"

"Can I have Patient Information?"

"One moment, please."

Another voice on the line. "Patient Information."

"I'd like to know which room Charles Eppes is in."

"One moment." Pause. "He's in Intensive Care. There's no one but family permitted, sir."

"I _am_ family – I'm his brother."

"One moment." Pause again. "He's in room two in Psychiatric Care. You _will_ be asked for identification before they let you see him."

"And where is Psychiatric Care?"

"It's on the third floor of the Anschutz Inpatient Center, the north wing. When you come in the main doors, go to the set of elevators on your right. The others take you to the south wing – they're not connected, so make sure you get into the correct set. The doors will open into a lobby on the third floor – you'll have to sign in with the receptionist."

"Okay, thanks." Don hung up the phone, wondering where in the hell he was. North wing, or south wing? If he was on north, he could just go for a stroll, drag his IV along, like a patient out for some exercise, and somehow end up in the psych ward. That wasn't going to work if he was in the south wing and had to go through the lobby, however. Not to mention the fact that a receptionist was probably not going to let a man in a hospital gown with no ID through the psych ward doors. As he sat there, thinking, a wheelchair came into view in the open doorway. The woman seated in it was old, her face bloated by medication, her back humped, a nasal canula hanging from her nose. She was beaming, and she looked hideous. A familiar voice came from behind her.

"I need to make sure you get into your room safely, Ms. Berry. A beautiful woman like you can't be roamin' these halls alone – you'd never be able to fight those men off." Ms. Berry giggled; then choked, and Don watched in alarm, but she recovered, and wiped a rheumy eye.

A figure loped into sight behind the wheelchair, and Don called out. "LaVonte!"

LaVonte had already passed the doorway, and he leaned backwards, sticking just his head in the opening. "Yo, FBI."

"LaVonte, what wing is this?"

"South, man." The head started to disappear.

"Wait!"

This time, LaVonte's body accompanied the head into the doorway. Don looked at him, trying to appear friendly, or at least non-threatening. "I've got a favor to ask you."

"Okay, let me get Ms. Berry back to her room, first." He disappeared, and Don could hear his voice receding down the hallway. "I _tole_ you, Ms. Berry. Those men are after you." The giggling and resultant choking was louder this time, and ended in a hacking cough, then a cackle.

"Jesus, he's going to kill her," Don muttered to himself.

In moments, LaVonte was back. "And what is this favor, FBI?"

Don looked at him levelly. "I need to go see my brother on the north wing."

LaVonte's lower lip stuck out, and he scowled. "You gonna run my black ass all over this hospital, ain't you?" At Don's disconcerted expression, the scowl was suddenly replaced by an ear-to-ear grin. "I'm shittin' you, man. Lemme go get a wheelchair." He turned in the doorway, shooting a look over his shoulder. "Your doctor did release you for this, right?"

"Uh, yeah," lied Don. "I've just been waiting for someone to take me."

LaVonte returned, maneuvering a wheelchair. "Who was supposed to take you?"

"Uh –"

"I'll bet it was Mickey, that lazy SOB. I bet you been waitin' an hour for him. Okay, let's get this -," LaVonte grabbed the IV, which by now had been switched with one containing clear fluid, and hooked it onto the chair, and then pushed the wheelchair next to the bed, holding a hand out for support as Don slid out of bed. Don ignored it, and LaVonte stared. "Man, them are some white legs. Where you from, anyway?"

"L.A." Don flushed, unaccountably embarrassed.

"L.A.! Man, that's Hollywood, Malibu. I know they got beaches there. You got to get out and get some sun!"

Don sank into the chair, grateful for the seat. He wasn't feeling wobbly anymore, but his shoulder hurt like hell, and the hospital gown seemed a little more secure in a seated position. LaVonte laid a blanket over his lap with a flourish. "Better hide them legs. Okay, white boy, where we goin?" He began to push the wheelchair.

"North wing, third floor."

"Third floor? And who did you say was up there?" LaVonte pushed the wheelchair out into the hallway with a quick look around.

"My brother."

"Your brother's a junkie? Or a nutcase. Which one?"

Don was silent for a moment; then said, "You know, maybe this isn't a good idea. I don't have permission to do this – you're going to get in trouble if you take me."

LaVonte kept pushing, his shoulders bobbing up and down. "I know you don't have no permission," he scoffed. "There's written orders when I'm s'posed to take someone, and I checked when I got the wheelchair. There ain't no order." He pulled the wheelchair in front of the elevator, and pushed the button.

Don glanced up at him. "Then why are you doing this?"

LaVonte grinned at him. "I ain't doin' it. Someone else is. You didn't get his name." The grin faded a little, as he pushed the wheelchair onto the elevator, which was thankfully empty. "So your brother – he's in trouble?" He pushed a button for the first floor, and the doors closed.

"I, uh, – he was."

"Was he the suspect?"

Don looked at him in confusion. "Suspect?"

LaVonte motioned to Don's bandaged shoulder. "You said you got that from a fight with the suspect. Your brother into drugs? Third floor north's the psych ward and rehab."

Comprehension dawned on Don's face, followed rapidly by a headshake. "No – he's a professor. He was attacked – the guy who attacked him was the suspect."

LaVonte's jaw dropped. "No shit. That sounds like a story off the news…" He trailed off, staring at Don. "I knew I seen you before – you're the guy from CNN – your brother was took by that crazy bastard – that Flower Killer – no shit. I'll be damned. It's you, ain't it?"

"Yeah," said Don wearily. "Look, don't spread that around, okay? The press will be all over this place."

"I won't," said LaVonte with conviction. "Shit, now there's a bad-ass, that's some bad-ass shit, there. You catch him? Too bad. No wonder you want to see your brother. An' no wonder you got them white legs. Ain't like you had time to sit in the sun lately, now is it, chasing after that bad-ass. You got to move to Cleveland, that's where I'm from. Your white legs would fit right in there. The sun don't ever shine, not even in the summer. Hell, _I_ was white when I lived in Cleveland." The door dinged, and LaVonte positioned the wheelchair. "Okay, white boy, we gotta switch elevators."

LaVonte pushed them into a hallway that was nearly empty, and Don looked around in confusion. "I thought we had to go through the lobby."

"That's the way to get busted fo sho, FBI. This is the elevator we use to transfer patients – we're in the back hallway. What, you think I'm gonna parade you around in your skivvies in front of all them people?" He wheeled Don in front of another elevator, and in moments, they were on it and approaching the third floor.

Don's stomach suddenly knotted. "Maybe we shouldn't do this – someone's gonna ask us what we're doing – how much trouble can you get in for doing this? You might get fired."

"Oh, no, you ain't gonna chicken out now, white boy," replied LaVonte with conviction. "Your brother needs you. If it was me, an' I was in there, I'd want my brother with me. Don't you worry about me. I play the dumb ass real good. I look dumb, they shake their heads, and say, 'Don't do it again, LaVonte.' Beside, they all love me here." The door opened. "Here we are."

He wheeled Don out of the elevator into a short hallway, and as soon as they rounded the corner, he saw Colby standing next to a doorway, looking through an observation window. A cop stood further down, and he started forward as Don and LaVonte approached, but backed off as Colby exclaimed, "Don! What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?"

LaVonte nodded approvingly. "Now you're startin' to sound like me." He wheeled Don to the door, and began to back in.

Colby stared. "They said family only, well hell, I guess you're family, but I think there's some kind of time limit."

LaVonte was backing Don through the door, and Don was craning his neck over his shoulder trying to see. The room didn't look that much different from his own, although it was outfitted with more equipment. The wheelchair swung around and door began to close behind them, the hiss of the air piston sounding loud in the suddenly silent room. Don and LaVonte were motionless, staring at the figure in the bed, oblivious to the door opening again, and Colby pushing through, muttering, "Hell, I might as well come in, too."

He fell silent, looking with the others at the figure in the bed. Charlie looked worse than Don remembered, even though the swelling had gone down somewhat in his eye. Both of them were black, the entire left side of his face was badly bruised also, a side Don hadn't seen too much of that morning, the way they'd been sitting. IV's snaked into his arms; one clear, one red, and his left wrist was bandaged. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

"Damn," breathed LaVonte, with feeling.

Don struggled out of the chair, tossing aside the blanket, and moved to the bedside, sinking into a chair next to it. The hand closest to him was the one that was bandaged – he was afraid to grasp it too tightly, so he contented himself with turning his hand palm up, and curling his fingers under Charlie's.

"Hey Buddy," he whispered, and suddenly he could go no further. A flood of emotion – guilt, relief, worry, fear - started under his breastbone and moved up through his throat, bringing choking tears with it. He lowered his head, tears silently rolling over his face, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed deeply in and out, trying to keep from disintegrating into sobs.

He felt a hand squeezing his shoulder – Colby, again, just like in the men's room at Albuquerque, offering solid support. "Hey, Don, I know you want to see him, but maybe this isn't the best idea. You're tired, you need rest -,"

Don waved him off, his head still down. "I'm not going anywhere until they kick me out." His voice was muffled, but the flash of stubbornness seemed to overcome the tears, and he ran a hand over his face, and straightened in his chair.

"That's my man!" beamed LaVonte.

Colby shot him a look that said, 'Who_ is_ this guy?' but LaVonte was unperturbed. "He younger than you, huh?"

Don regarded the still face in front of him. The eyes were dark, and seemed alive, but they were focused on something far away. They were intense, vibrating back and forth slightly in the sockets, but underneath that intensity, Don could see vestiges of fear and pain in their depths. "Yeah, five years younger."

"I remember on the TV, they said was some kind of genius or somethin.' He look like he be thinkin' pretty hard right now."

"Look, why don't you take a hike for a while," snapped Colby, sounding uncharacteristically irritable.

Don put up a hand with just a quick backward glance that didn't even make it all the way around. "That's okay – he risked his job to get me up here."

"Shit, I don't mind," said LaVonte affably. "I'd be pissed off too, if some piece of shit took one of my brothers. You feds better catch that son'bitch. I think I _will_ take a walk though – someone will take you back, white boy, but don't you let 'em 'till you're done here." He turned and loped out, pushing the wheelchair out into the hall with a more exaggerated street walk than ever, an in-your-face strut, more than likely just to irritate Colby.

Colby watched him go, with a nonplussed frown. "Who in the hell was that?"

"LaVonte. He's not so bad." Don's eyes were riveted on Charlie's face. "Has he moved at all?"

"Not that I could see, and I was watching him for a quite a while through the windows," Colby said. "The curtain next to the bed was drawn a little – I couldn't really see his face from there. I don't know if he was – awake -," he hesitated, wondering if he had the right word, "– the whole time or not."

Silence fell for a moment, and they both watched Charlie's face. His lips were still moving slightly, and Colby spoke again. "What do you think he's saying?"

Don shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it – that meant acknowledging something was horribly wrong. It was hard – so hard to watch, but he felt strongly that he needed to be there, that his presence was important to Charlie – if for nothing else than to keep his condition from worsening. "I don't know."

"Was he doing this when you found him?"

Don's voice was hoarse. "Yeah." He'd given Megan a report in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, but he doubted she'd had time to chat with Colby. His eyes drifted back to Charlie's face.

--

Charlie could hear the voices, see the faces. The images were clear enough, but they were shapeless blobs as far as his conscious was concerned; he ignored them. All but one – Don. His brother's face hovered over him, concern in the dark eyes, and it pulled at him. That face, that voice, out of all the rest, was dragging on his mind, drawing it out of the darkness and back into the light. He fought it, hard.

It wasn't that he didn't want to see Don, to talk to him, to hug him – he wanted that desperately. The problem was that consciousness would bring feeling and memories with it – things that he wouldn't, couldn't deal with; things that were too horrible, that hurt too much for his conscious mind to bear. Don would pull him back to that world, back from the peaceful cocoon of space, with its beautiful numerical constellations. He closed his eyes to shut out the vision of the brother he loved, and whispered to himself to drown out his voice.

His mind began to float freely, and he breathed more easily. He was tired, so tired. Sleep was dangerous too – he lost control while he slept, but maybe it would be okay for just a little while…

--

Don watched as Charlie's eyes drifted shut, and the rise and fall of his chest grew more regular. "How did you guys find us, anyway?"

"Your cell phone. It had stopped working altogether a few hours before we figured out you were gone, but the cell phone company had the last transmission location. Riley remembered the place from a long time ago – he said there were some incidents back when he was cop – something about animals being gutted. Based on that, we're guessing now our perp is actually from Denver, maybe grew up around here. I figure Wright is probably gonna hand it off to the Denver office because of that – we'll probably help out for a couple of days, get 'em up to speed, and of course do any follow up on the murders back in L.A."

Don nodded absently, his eyes on Charlie's now-peaceful face, and Colby hesitated for a moment; then said, "Maybe I'll just leave you with him for a bit. They're probably gonna send you back as soon as they find out you're here." He had barely turned toward the door when Don spoke.

"Wait."

Colby turned back to meet Don's eyes. His SAC had turned, and his face was filled with torment and uncertainty. "Yeah, Don?"

"Maybe you can help. Charlie – he and I don't – communicate so well. Maybe you can talk to him, try to talk him out of this."

Colby's face softened, but he shook his head. "I don't know, Don."

Don continued, a little desperately. "Look, when he was attacked, shot at, during the Parks case, he didn't come to me, he came to you. He wouldn't even tell me he was being followed before it happened – he was afraid I was pissed at him or something. He was probably right. You, though – I know he talked to you, and I know it helped him a lot."

"He told you we talked?" Colby looked uncomfortable.

Don hung his head. "No – I overheard him talking to Dad. He didn't even tell me that much." He raised his head again. "Maybe you can talk to him again – try to get him to come out of this."

Colby sighed, but his voice was firm. "Look, Don, you know I'd do anything to help you guys – I think a lot of Charlie." His gaze wandered to the figure in the bed, sadly. "If anyone can pull him out of this, though, it's you." He looked back at Don, his voice firm. "We talked about more than just the Parks case that day. We didn't really discuss you specifically, but it was obvious, man, as far as Charlie goes, the sun rises and sets around you. I mean, that was something that was pretty clear even before we talked, but that day… anyway, Don, you're _it_, you're like a god, as far he's concerned. He'd do anything for you. If you can't pull him out of this, no one can."

He turned and walked toward the door, pausing as he opened it. "I'll do what I can when you're not here, although I'm not sure how much they'll let me in his room. But don't make him settle for second best – when he can have you."

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End Chapter 32


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all. I had fun writing LaVonte- he will show up again. _

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 33**

Colby let himself out and softly shut the door, leaving Don staring after him. He looked back uncertainly at Charlie, but he barely had time to process the conversation with the younger agent, when a door opened behind him.

A young woman with a clipboard stepped in, eyeing his hospital gown. "I'm Louise Hambaugh, from Victims' Services. Are you Charles Eppes?"

Don shook his head. "No – I'm Don Eppes, his brother." He indicated the figure in the bed. "This is Charlie."

She flipped her file open and regarded her notes, and then shot a narrowed glance at Charlie. "He's still – incapacitated?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I have his exam results. I was going to discuss them with him."

"Exam." Don repeated blankly.

"The rape kit."

His mouth went dry, but he tried to look composed. "You can give the results to a family member, correct?"

"My notes say that you're law enforcement."

"FBI," Don agreed.

"And you're working this case?"

"Well, not at the moment," Don said with a wry expression, "but yes, I have been." In spite of his collected expression, his gut was twisting. _Rape kit..._

She shook her head, and took a step backwards toward the door, which opened behind her. Don's eyes traveled over her shoulder and he straightened in surprise as he met his father's gaze. Alan's face was study in emotions, anxiety warring with relief; his own eyes took in Don and the figure in the bed behind him, but he waited for a break in the conversation.

Louise Hambaugh hadn't realized he was there, and kept talking. "Then I'm sorry, I can't release the results to you. We're not allowed to release them to law enforcement unless the patient signs an agreement, or, if the patient is incapacitated, a family member can sign who is in charge of making treatment decisions. It's a standard Jane Doe law."

"_I'm_ responsible for my son's treatment decisions," growled Alan, behind her, still standing in the doorway. He couldn't stand there anymore; his face twisting with emotion, he pushed in past both of them, to Charlie's bedside, touching Don's back reassuringly as he moved next to him. Which of them he was reassuring was an open question. "Oh, my God, my son," he breathed, his face collapsing in grief as he took in Charlie's condition. "Charlie…" He suddenly moved swiftly around the foot of the bed to the other side, so he could take Charlie's good hand. "Charlie."

Don regarded him miserably. "He can't hear you."

"We're not certain of that," came a voice from behind him, and Don turned his head to see a tall blond man in a white lab coat, who had stepped in behind Alan. He looked at Don. "You realize they're looking all over the hospital for you." Stepping forward toward Don, he held out his hand. "I'm Dr. Garamond." As they shook, his gaze traveled over to Alan, who clutched Charlie's right hand, rubbing it, and Garamond spoke to him. "I tried to explain his condition to you, but it's probably a little easier to comprehend, now that you've seen him."

Alan was peering into Charlie's face, blinking rapidly, trying to fight off the moisture that had collected in his eyes. He looked up abruptly at Louise Hambaugh, who was still standing in the doorway. "What is it that you need to release?"

Don shot her a quick, panicked glance. "Dad -," he tried to interject, but Louise spoke before he could soften the blow.

"The results of his rape kit."

Alan gaped at her, turning pale. "His…," He looked at Don, then back at her, then after a brief internal war, seemed to gather himself, straightening. "All right, then."

Louise looked at Don, sympathetically. "I'm afraid you'll need to leave the room, sir."

Don rose; looking defiantly from her to Garamond, but Alan came around to his side of the bed, and laid a gentle, but heavy hand on his shoulder. "Donnie. Please."

Garamond lifted an eyebrow, and looked at Alan meaningfully. "Of course, once you have that information, you have the right to decide what to do with it."

Both Don and Alan looked at him with dawning understanding, and Alan said, in a voice that shook just a bit, "Yes, of course."

Don regarded his father, sadly. According to Garamond, Alan would be able to tell him the results, but he hated for his father to get the news alone. "I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered. "I'll wait outside."

He padded toward the doorway, the tile floor feeling suddenly cold on his bare feet. As he came through the door, Colby pushed the wheelchair toward him, but Don shook his head and stood instead, watching through the observation window, his arms wrapped around his chest, his shoulders tight.

He saw Louise Hambaugh speak, gesturing, and he tried to read her lips, but she was only in quarter profile. His father faced her, and as she spoke, he put a trembling hand to his face, which contorted, and sank into the chair that Don had just vacated, seemingly overcome. Don could feel his father's pain, reaching out to him through the glass, wrenching his heart inside him until he couldn't breathe. "Damn it," he rasped, in a low sob. "God…,"

Louise continued to speak to Alan, who nodded, wiping tears from his face, and then she turned away, nodding at Dr. Garamond. Her eyes flitted toward the observation window as she came toward the door, and when she came out, she said softly, "Thanks for waiting. You can go in now."

Don felt Colby's hand on his shoulder, and he forced leaden feet to move, back into the room. He stopped in front of Alan; Dr. Garamond was speaking softly, but Don couldn't process what he was saying. Don just stood, looking at Charlie, barely aware that Alan was standing until his father moved right next to him, and enveloped him in a hug. "It's okay – she said it's okay," Alan said, in a voice cracking with tears.

Don took a step backwards, out of the hug, and stared at him dumbly. "What?"

He could see the relief on his father's face through the tears. "The test - it came back negative. She said they can't rule out other forms of sexual abuse – only Charlie can tell us that, but there's no sign of rape."

Don still stared at him, unmoving, until the words sank in and a huge breath left him, leaving him dizzy. He transferred his gaze to Charlie, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks.

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Four days later, Don sat by Charlie's beside, and reflected that there was precious little for which to be thankful. Don had been released from the hospital three days before, the day after he and Charlie had been recovered, although Wright had put him on leave until his shoulder completely healed. For once, he didn't argue. It made him feel slightly guilty – as if he was shirking his duty – he should have been out there with his agents, trying to track the killer down. The fact that his shoulder was healing well exacerbated the guilt; physically he was nearly whole. He didn't care, however – he had no intention of leaving Charlie's side.

Rape or not, it had become painfully obvious that Charlie had been severely traumatized. The doctors used words like 'catatonic,' 'emotional shock,' 'mental distress,' 'cognitive retreat,' and others. They all meant the same thing. Charlie was in another place, his mental connection with the real world fractured. Garamond had consulted with his peers, some of them across the country, discussing treatment options and weighing the wisdom of trying them. The ones he did attempt had been unsuccessful, so far.

In the meantime, they'd worked on healing Charlie's body. The bruising was extensive, and still covered his body, although some of it was starting to lighten. There had been some bruising on the other victims, but nothing like this. Charlie had apparently generated a rage in the man the female victims hadn't – Megan and Jill both suspected it stemmed from the killer's conflicted emotions over kidnapping a man. The incision in his abdomen was also healing, and the bandage on his wrist had been exchanged for a cast; luckily, there was no bone displacement, just a simple fracture, and it required no surgery. The swelling in Charlie's face and around his eyes had gone down, but it only served to accentuate how thin his face was.

Nourishment was a whole other conundrum. The doctors had finally decided they would have to resort to a feeding tube – Charlie was unable to, or refused to eat. They'd inserted a nasogastric tube after two days of no improvement in his mental functions, alarmed at his weight, which had dipped dangerously low.

Don watched dejectedly as Alan smoothed lip balm on Charlie's cracked lips, speaking soothingly, gently caressing a clump of tangled curls. Charlie simply stared at the ceiling, his eyes glazed, his lips moving slightly. Don had tried talking to him too, tried until he was hoarse, but he got no more response than Alan was getting now. No, that wasn't quite true. It seemed Charlie did respond to him a little more than he did to everyone else. Unfortunately, they were the wrong responses. After a few words from Don, Charlie would shut his eyes, increase the movement of his lips, raise his voice to a whisper, or all of the above. It seemed as though he was trying to shut Don out, or drown him out. Don suspected, with a breaking heart, that Charlie, deep down inside, blamed him for this, or perhaps had taken his phone conversation with the killer, so many days earlier, to heart. The words came back to haunt him now. _'You're wrong. I don't even like him. We work together out of necessity…,'_

Charlie's eyes closed and his head tilted sideways; his rigid limbs began to slacken. He was drifting off to sleep again; he slept a lot, although Don suspected it was not by choice. Watching him sleep was almost worse than seeing him in his catatonic state; it seemed the nightmares took over when Charlie's control was relaxed, and the moans and cries that emerged from his brother were enough to crack the strongest heart. Every time Charlie slept, his father cried, and Don had to leave the room. He couldn't handle both of them.

His eyes rested sadly on Charlie's face; it looked peaceful in repose, but Don knew that peace wouldn't last long. Alan rubbed his face tiredly, finally sitting back in his chair now that Charlie was out. His father looked exhausted, and heartsick. Guilt crept back into Don's mind, in all of its darkness. _'My fault…_'

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door behind him. Charlie was no longer considered in intensive care, but they had left him in the same room for privacy. Dr. Garamond was coming through the door, and Don could see Jill Cash waiting in the hallway behind him. All of Don's agents had come to spend some time at the hospital, some of it with Charlie, but it was the Seattle profiler who was there the most frequently. In fact, she was the only one of the group who had made the trip to Denver, besides Don, who was still here; although he knew she planned to fly back to Seattle soon. Wright and Don's team had left Denver for L.A. the day before. Jill had spent nearly all of her free waking time with Charlie, Don knew, and he'd pondered the reason for that. Perhaps she was simply a caring person – after all, she'd gone to see Mike Shire several times in the hospital in L.A. Maybe she felt guilty she wasn't in Seattle to support her SAC, and she considered Charlie something of a surrogate. Or maybe, it was something else…

The thought of Mike Shire made him shudder. He'd heard the man had been released from the hospital, finally, but was on indefinite leave, and still didn't have custody of his children. If Don had come in to that room at the abandoned meatpacking plant to find Charlie dead, the way that Mike had found his wife…he wasn't sure if he would have survived that, mentally, either. He wrenched his thoughts back to his surroundings. Dr. Garamond was speaking to Alan.

"…reached a point where you need to start considering long term care." Garamond's voice was gentle, his gaze compassionate. "There is still every chance Charlie will recover, in fact, I'm betting on it. It may be a long slow road, however, and this hospital is not geared for that type of care. There is an excellent facility in L.A. that handles this, one of the world's best, and there is a doctor there whom I would recommend, Dr. Susan Raine. We can arrange for medical transport for him as early as tomorrow, if you wish."

Alan looked at Don, and back at Garamond. "Isn't it risky to move him?"

Garamond shook his head. "Not really. I've spoken with his physicians; they all agree he's healed enough physically to make the trip. Really, it wouldn't be much different for him on the flight than it is here – he'll be in a bed, and will still be hooked to his IV and feeding tube. The aircraft is equipped for medical emergencies, although we don't expect that in this case. The transfer should be perfectly safe. The sooner you can get him under Susan's care, the better, in my opinion."

Alan looked at Don again, and Don nodded. "All right," said Alan. "We need to make arrangements ourselves-,"

"Not flight arrangements," interjected Garamond. "The medical flight can transport a small number of family members – two of you would certainly be allowed. If you're okay with the facility I suggest, Greene Medical Center, I can make a call and get this going."

A low moan suddenly sounded, and their conversation ceased as they turned to look at Charlie. His head turned slightly, his face contorted as if in fear and pain, and Alan instinctively reached for his hand, rubbing it gently. When he looked up and spoke again, his voice was tired. "Yes. Please. Make the call."

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Jill gave a nod to the officer on guard, and waited patiently until Dr. Garamond left the room. Alan and Don Eppes followed – they'd become accustomed to her visits, and often left her alone with Charlie. It felt good that they entrusted her with the task; it hadn't started that way, but once they'd determined Charlie was comfortable enough with her presence, they'd used the brief opportunities to take care of their own needs – to take a nap, grab a bite to eat.

She always took the seat on his right, so she could hold his uninjured hand. She took it now, and spoke softly. "Hey, Charlie, it's Jill." He was stirring in his sleep, but at her voice, he went still, and seemed to relax again. His eyes were moving under his eyelids – REM sleep.

"I hope you're feeling better today. We all miss you and want you to come back. It's safe now, Charlie, you're with people who love you. I know it was terrifying, and remembering is difficult, but we're here to help you with that. It really is okay." She touched the back of his hand, holding it in one of hers, stroking it gently with the other, still speaking quietly, keeping her voice to a gentle murmur. Her heart filled as her eyes took in his face, drinking in the contours and planes, the dark lashes, his strong nose, the stubble, the bruises. She was so utterly submerged in his presence; she didn't see the dark-haired young woman who appeared in the surveillance window.

--

Amita looked through the window, and froze.

After hearing they'd found Charlie, she'd fought with herself for two days straight, two days of not sleeping, trying to decide whether she should come to see him. Larry had encouraged her, offering to take over her lectures for a few days, and his quiet reasoning had finally convinced her. Once she'd made the decision, it had taken another two days before she could get a flight. As she'd driven her rental car from the airport, she'd begun to panic, and it had gotten worse as she approached the hospital. Alan had told her Charlie was uncommunicative, that he was struggling with some kind mental withdrawal. She had hoped that maybe her presence would help draw him out, that maybe the memories of their relationship would awaken him.

As she got closer, however, she began to worry that she might just make things worse. She couldn't help but remember her talk with Alan; his almost prophetic statement that Charlie would have a lot to deal with when they found him, and his insinuation that their relationship problems weren't something that he should have to handle while he was recovering. What if her presence hurt him somehow, instead of helping?

She was still second-guessing herself as she rode up the elevator, and signed in at the desk outside the psychiatric ward. Alan might, and Don probably would, take exception to her presence. In fact, they might ask her to leave. It would almost be a blessing – then she could tell herself she'd tried, but wouldn't have to face him – wouldn't have to worry that she'd hurt him further, wouldn't have to worry that she would get what she most feared – rejection.

The last thing she'd expected to see was the agent from Seattle, sitting alone with him, holding his hand. It was a simple gesture, but something - perhaps it was the expression on the agent's face - made it look intimate. Amita stared for a moment, stunned, confused, her eyes tearing up as she took in Charlie's frail, still form in the bed, and then she turned around, and walked away.

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End Chapter 33


	34. Chapter 34

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 34**

Don parted ways with his father at the corridor that led to the cafeteria. Alan was going for coffee – he seemed to be living on the stuff lately – but Don needed air. The news that Charlie was going into what sounded suspiciously like a nursing home or a mental hospital had hit hard. The walls of the hospital seemed somehow restrictive, as if he was already imagining Charlie's upcoming confinement. He needed to get out, just for a moment.

He winced as he pushed open the door to the main entrance. His arm was feeling much better, so good that he'd forget sometimes and stretch it a little more than was comfortable. He'd gotten no further than ten feet from the door when he was aware of people converging on him. He looked up to see microphones and cameras headed his way; some of them already too close. '_Ah, shit,_' he thought. '_Goddamned LaVonte._'

"Agent Eppes!" One of the reporters, a man with lacquered hair, spoke breathlessly. "We've heard that your brother was found. How's he doing?"

"He's recovering," said Don abruptly. His progress had come to a standstill; he was surrounded by reporters.

"We'd heard he was in critical condition. What's his condition now?"

Don hesitated. "He's no longer critical."

The reporters were jockeying for position, and the big dogs, the national networks, were successfully maneuvering up front and center. One of the reporters, a well-known figure, interjected. "Agent Eppes, we understand this is a difficult time for you."

'_It would be less difficult if you weren't in my face_,' thought Don.

The man had continued, smoothly. "We have information that your brother sustained neurological damage, and is in a coma. Can you verify that?"

"That's not true," replied Don, with conviction. He started to move around the cluster of humanity in front of him, bristling with microphones. "Now, if you don't mind -,"

"But he is still in intensive care, in the psych ward," another report insisted.

Don stopped and glared at him. Even if his statement was true, it was irresponsible. People all over the country would hear that, and assume Charlie had lost his mind. He tried to deflect the comment. "He's no longer in intensive care. In fact, he's going to be discharged soon."

"So he's going home?" The reporter from the national network spoke. "What information has he been able to give you about the killer?"

Don finally conceded that moving forward was out of the question, and he began to turn back to the building. "That's an ongoing investigation; I can't comment."

He began to walk back towards the doors, and the reporters followed, moving like one large cumbersome creature with multiple legs. "We've heard he's in a coma, and can't give you anything," shouted one of them.

Don reached for the door. "No comment," he repeated, and pulled it open, pushing past a hospital administrator, who held up a hand to the crowd.

"I'm sorry," said the administrator firmly to the disappointed reporters. "You are not allowed inside the hospital, and I must ask that you move away from the entrance. Thank you."

Inside, Don strode away from the doors, seething, ignoring the curious looks from the people in the lobby. Up to this point, the killer had no certain knowledge that he and Charlie were even alive. The mass of idiots outside had just put his brother in jeopardy, and he had a good idea who their source was.

He found him on the second floor of the south wing, loping down a hallway. LaVonte grinned when he saw him. "Yo, FBI."

Don grabbed him by the front of his smock, and pushed him against the wall, his face inches from LaVonte's nose. "Don't 'yo' me, you asshole. I thought I told you not to let out any information on Charlie."

LaVonte's eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't, man."

Don felt a twinge of doubt; the man certainly didn't look as if he was lying. He released his grip, but his expression was suspicious. "Who, then?"

"Hell, I don't know," protested LaVonte, rearranging his smock. He looked from side to side, and lowered his voice. "It could have been anyone."

Don stared at him, frowning. The man's enunciation had completely changed; the street dialect was gone, replaced by a bland, Midwestern accent. "Who in the hell are you?"

LaVonte stared back for a moment, and then, realizing he'd been caught, sighed. "Look, I'm just who you think I am. I grew up in Cleveland, on the streets – the talk is real, man. Those are my roots. What I'm doing with those roots is something else. I have a master's degree, and I'm working on my doctorate in psychology. My thesis concerns patient care in hospitals, and the hypothesis that patients heal faster when you deal with their emotional needs, not just their physical requirements. As you might suspect, I'm trying to test out that hypothesis as part of my job, here. From a professional standpoint, I'm extremely interested in your brother's case, but I can assure you, I did not leak that information."

Don's mouth was hanging open, he realized, and he shut it. "Who would have?"

LaVonte shrugged and shook his head. "It could have been anyone who knows he's there – and that's quite a few people, actually."

Don eyed him doubtfully. "So it was all an act – the fed brother in Chicago, and so on?"

LaVonte grinned. "Actually it worked pretty well – you looked about ready to explode until I got hold of you - I did manage to alleviate your worry a little, didn't I? And no – that part wasn't an act. My brother _is_ FBI. You might have heard of him – Leland Parker – he's A.D. of the Midwest offices. That alone ought to convince you it wasn't me who leaked the info. My brother would kick my ass if he thought I'd done something like that."

Don sighed, shook his head ruefully, and ran a hand through his hair. He did know Leland Parker, and now that he thought about, LaVonte looked a lot like his brother. "Okay, well look, I'm sorry about that. It's just that – whoever did that just let the killer know that Charlie's still alive. I suppose that would have come out eventually, but I would have preferred to catch the guy first."

LaVonte nodded soberly. "I hear that. Don't worry about it – no offense taken. Good luck." He started to turn away, and sent Don a cocky grin, lapsing back into street vernacular. "You catch that bad-ass, you hear me? Later, white boy." He winked, and loped off down the hall.

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Ryan Morgan sat in the chair at the L.A. temp agency, facing the assignment coordinator. He tried not to let his lip curl in disgust; the man was squat, and smelled like garlic.

The coordinator eyed him, and chewed on the cold stub of a cigar. "Haven't seen you around for a coupla weeks. Grew a mustache, huh?"

Ryan sent him an apologetic smile. Once back in L.A., he'd gone back to his own hair and eye color, and shaved off the beard, but he'd kept the mustache. "Yeah, I've been auditioning for a few roles here and there."

The man snorted. "Everyone's an actor in this town. Let me give you some advice, son. Go back to school; get a degree that'll get you a real job. I've seen more actors get chewed up and spit out by this place than I care to remember."

Ryan smiled again, although inside, he nearly screamed with derision. Fat slob – he had no idea to whom he was talking. He eyed the man's gut, wondering what it would be like to cut it. Disgusting, he was sure – all that fat, yellow blobs of it, quivering under the skin. The thought made him nauseous. Not like Eppes. The lean torso, the smooth skin…

"…not much out there right now. I got a job with a cleaning service – janitorial, you know."

Morgan pulled himself back to reality, as the coordinator continued. "Mediclean. They specialize in medical institutions. Pay's good, and could turn steady. The only reason it hasn't gone already is because most of the wanna-be actors think it's beneath 'em." He stared at Morgan, as if he'd thrown down a gauntlet.

"I'll take it," Morgan said. "When do I start?"

"You can go over there today. Here's the address." He pushed a paper toward Morgan, who took it and stood. "They give ya a uniform, your own truck – don't have to spend your own gas money." The coordinator nodded approvingly. "I knew you weren't like the rest of 'em – you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. You're gonna go far."

"Thanks," Morgan smiled. "I plan on it."

He reported immediately to Mediclean, and spent the entire afternoon in training. He told his supervisor that he was a laid-off orderly and pre-med student, and was already familiar with the workings of hospitals. The supervisor was thrilled to hear that, and it shortened Ryan's training program considerably. For the next several days, he was to go out for on-the-job training with another worker, and if he felt comfortable after that, the supervisor told him, he would assign him, and Ryan could go ahead and start working on his own.

The job couldn't be more suited to his needs. If he was lucky, he might be able to snitch some more meds, and add to his dwindling stock. The drugs were available on the street, but the cost was high, and buying them meant interfacing with someone who could later identify him. The best part of it, though, as far as Ryan was concerned, was the Mediclean van. He was still driving the now black panel van, and had contracted a sign agency to paint simple white blocks on each side along with the name of a fictitious landscaping company to disguise it further, but it would be good to have an alternate vehicle, especially one that was registered with a legitimate business.

After training was over, he picked up food at a drive-through along with the day's paper, and headed back to his hotel room. It was seedy and in a bad section of town, but it was still more than he could afford to pay on an ongoing basis. As he stepped into the room, he spotted a small dark blotch on the carpet. He'd cut again last night, and apparently the victim, a homeless woman from under the bridge, had dripped when he carried her body to the van, on his way to sinking her body in the Big Dalton Reservoir. He would have to try to remove it, he thought to himself, although the carpet was already stained; it was doubtful the cleaning crew would even notice it.

He scanned the paper as he ate, looking for rental opportunities, and found two that looked promising. He circled them – he would call about them later. He had to assume he would be here for a while – he no information yet about Eppes. He'd driven by the Craftsman every day, and there was no one home.

When he'd fled the meatpacking building he had assumed backup was coming behind the agent, but now he wondered if that had been the case. Maybe the agent and the professor were still there, languishing away in the walk-in refrigerator. Somehow, though, in this age of cell phones, he doubted that. Even if Eppes hadn't called in backup, they could have traced his location. And if that were the case, then reason would say that the professor was likely to be alive. If he'd died, the father would be home by now, making arrangements for a funeral.

In spite of the fact that Ryan knew it was in his best interests if the professor had died, the thought that he might still be living gave him a thrill of excitement. As long as Eppes was alive, there could still be an opportunity to cut him, to finish what he'd started. He knew those thoughts were dangerous, but his obsession had gone beyond reason. He could still feel the sensation of the scalpel as it had sunk into the young man's skin…

He realized that he was staring off into space, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, and rousing himself, took another bite and then punched the power button for the television. It was already tuned into CNN, and a "Breaking News," banner was running across the bottom of the screen. He jerked to attention as he spotted a shot of a familiar building; the reporter was standing in front of the University of Colorado Hospital.

The reporter was speaking into a microphone, and Morgan punched up the volume.

"…we have it from a confidential source that Dr. Eppes is still recovering from his ordeal at the hands of the Flower Killer. We have conflicting reports as to his condition – one source says he is comatose, but a discussion earlier today with his brother, Agent Don Eppes, disputes that – he indicated that his brother was going to be released soon. I have to believe, though, Jason, that regardless of the doctor's condition, this is the biggest break that the FBI has had in this case to date – he _is_ the only surviving victim."

The screen flipped back to the anchor. "And is there any word of how or where he was recovered?"

The reporter shook his head. "None, yet. We're still trying to get an official statement from Bureau headquarters…"

Ryan's mind worked furiously. Eppes was alive, soon to be released. Released to where? Home? A specialist? Therapy? Had he talked, or not? He only half realized he had risen and was pacing, sandwich still in hand, and he paused again to listen to the broadcast.

"…and we'll keep you updated on the latest events in this gripping story," the anchor was saying. A large graphic was displayed on the screen beside him; it read "Flower Killer," in garish jagged script, and there was a picture of knife underneath. It was bold, sensational, and both thrilled and frightened Ryan to see it. He was a celebrity, and not a soul, besides Charles Eppes, knew who he was.

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End Chapter 34

_A/N: I've been reading your comments concerning Jill and Amita. They are timely, because I'm getting to the section of the story where they confront each other. I truly haven't decided which one he'll end up with - normally I like to put the characters back the way they were in the show, but in this case I could go either way. _


	35. Chapter 35

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 35**

Don sighed and buried his face in Robin's hair, just briefly, filling his lungs with the scent of her. God, she felt good, but they were in the hospital corridor, and he'd already held her for too long. He wished they were alone somewhere; he wanted nothing more than to crawl underneath the sheets and hold her, simply hold her and have her hold him, and escape for just a little while. The guard outside Charlie's door was steadfastly looking down the corridor away from them with a slightly embarrassed look on his face, and Don reluctantly released her.

Robin smiled at Don as she stepped back, thinking to herself this wasn't the Don Eppes she knew – he'd always been hot in bed, but public displays of affection were another matter entirely. His long, close hug had been completely unexpected, but she liked it. Yeah, she liked it a lot. She flushed a little under his gaze, and looked away toward the door of Charlie's room at the Greene Medical Center. The Eppes men had arrived in L.A. two hours ago, and Charlie had been transported to the center and admitted. Don had called her as soon as they were on the ground. "So," she said softly, "how's he doing?"

She looked back at him, and wished she hadn't asked the question. His expression had changed; she could see worry and something darker in his eyes. He shook his head. "I don't know." He looked away, then looked back at her and shook his head again. "Not good."

"Can I see him?" she asked, and he looked at her as if she'd asked if she could strip and run up and down the halls.

"I – I, yeah, if you want to," he stammered.

She nodded. "I want to."

"He's – he won't acknowledge you." He was a little flustered, and almost seemed to be trying to talk her out of it.

"I know."

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged, and stepped around her to open the door. "Okay."

Alan was in the room; he gave her a cordial nod and a weary smile. "Robin. It's nice of you to visit."

"Hi, Alan. Thanks." She stepped forward, took his hand, and gave it a warm squeeze, then moved toward the bedside, but nearly stopped as she caught sight of Charlie. She felt as if she were at calling hours, and was about to view someone deceased. She forced herself to act normally, trying not to appear shocked at the figure in the bed, which bore no resemblance to the vibrant person she remembered. Gaunt, with a tube in his nose, fading bruises, and several days' growth of beard, matted hair, and cracked lips; he lay there staring at the ceiling. Only the slight movement of the eyes and lips, and an occasional long slow closing and opening of the eyelids, gave any indication that he was alive. As she stepped closer, she could see the rise and fall of his chest; his breathing was shallow and rapid, his body rigid. In spite of how dormant as he appeared on the outside, something intense was going on within him.

She stood there uncertainly, wondering if she should try to address him, wondering how foolish it would look to talk to someone who obviously was not going to respond, but then she thought, '_To hell with foolish_.' It certainly wouldn't hurt anything, and maybe it would help if he had stimulation from others. "Hi, Charlie."

That seemed woefully inadequate, and she paused wondering what else to say, then impulsively, took his right hand and gave it a quick squeeze, then released it. "We're rooting for you, Charlie. You hang in there; we'll be waiting for you when you come out."

Where those words came from, she had no idea – she didn't really know him that well, and she had no idea how bad this was. The words sounded awkward and flip, and she flushed to the roots of her hair as soon as she said them. She looked up, glancing at Alan and then, apologetically, at Don, but to her surprise Alan sent her a smile, and Don, well, Don was standing there with the most pathetically grateful expression she'd ever seen, and it melted her heart.

She moved beside him and took his hand, and all of them looked at Charlie for a moment. How evil, how poisonous the killer must be, to do this, she thought. If he didn't destroy his victims physically he broke them mentally, them and the people close to them. It had certainly affected Don; it had given her a glimpse of him she'd never seen before; how vulnerable he was underneath the tough guy persona. She'd been attracted to him for a long time, but now she was suddenly certain of one thing – this was definitely a man with whom she could fall in love. Hell, after the hug in the hallway, she was already there.

The silence was interrupted by a quick quiet knock on the door, and a woman in a white lab coat entered. She was slender and a bit taller than average, with an attractive oval face and shoulder length dark hair, liberally shot through with gray. She looked as though she was perhaps around fifty, and had sharp gray eyes and wore a slight, calm smile. A pair of narrow, rectangular eyeglasses hung from a chain around her neck. She held out a hand towards Don and Robin, who were closest. "Hello, Dr. Susan Raine," she said, in a pleasant alto that rang with intelligence, and crossed the floor to shake Alan's hand.

Alan rose from his seat and shook her hand, which was smooth and slender, aristocratic, like her face. "Alan Eppes, the patient's father. That's my son Don, and a friend, Robin Brooks."

'Interesting,' Dr. Raine thought as she looked at Alan. Strong features, sharp intelligent eyes; he appeared conservative but there was something - just a hint of rebel, perhaps, in his attitude. She nodded, with a quick glance back at Don before she turned her attention to Charlie. She said nothing for a moment, just stepped forward and observed him. The silence stretched as they watched her anxiously, but she ignored them, intent on the patient. "What does he answer to?" she asked finally, not raising her eyes from him.

"Professionally, and at school, he goes by Dr. Eppes, or Professor Eppes," replied Alan. "To his family and friends, he's Charlie."

She nodded; in addition to the medical reports, she had read up on Charles Eppes and was well aware of his mental capacity, his status in the mathematical world. Without hesitation, she bent and placed her face directly in front of Charlie's and said, "Charlie, I'm Dr. Raine. You can call me Susan. We're going to be working together for a while."

Don frowned skeptically as she straightened. "I don't think he can hear you."

She turned and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. "And why do you think that?"

He regarded her as if he thought she were a little slow. "We've been trying to talk to him for the better part of a week now, since he was recovered, and he's not responding. Didn't they send you a report?" He caught a warning look from his father at his sharp tone, but he didn't care.

Dr. Raine seemed unperturbed. "Yes," she replied calmly. "I read through all of them last night, twice."

Don shrugged a little, as if to say, '_Well, there you are_.'

"I didn't see anything in them that indicated auditory damage," she continued. "He can hear us; his brain is simply not processing what we're saying. His condition would be described as catatonic. He's conscious, but his brain is blocking out sensory perceptions from the outside world."

"How do you -," Alan searched for a word, "– fix that?"

She pursed her lips, and looked at Charlie. "That depends. If he has suffered a psychotic break of some kind, an involuntary separation with reality, he may or may not be able to recover fully." She looked back at Alan, and glanced at Don quickly, as if to gage their reactions to the statement. Both of them looked ill. The woman, Robin, glanced at Don with a distressed expression.

Susan took pity on them. "If however, the separation with reality was voluntary, it is actually a healthy self-defense mechanism. In that case, I would think we would be able to bring him back fully, although it will be painful. It will involve getting him to remember and accept what has happened to him, and even once he's back with us, there will likely be some post-traumatic stress to deal with."

"Which do you think it is – voluntary or involuntary?" asked Alan.

She looked back at his anxious face; she could see the suspicious brightness in his eyes, hear the slight tremor in his voice, although he was trying hard to hide it. 'Good emotional support from the father,' her professional mind told her, while her personal side thought, 'Even more intriguing, a man in touch with his emotions…'

"It's impossible to tell at this point," she said softly. "I'll be looking for clues as we work with him. I'll need some help from you. The more we interface with him, the better." She glanced at Don. "I understand you've been working the case. I'd like to spend some time with you, and get your thoughts on his kidnapper. The more I understand about what your brother might have gone through, the better."

At Don's nod, she turned back to look at the patient – Charlie, she corrected herself, not just a patient anymore. This, she thought, was going to be very interesting…

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Jill Cash knocked on the door, and shot a glance up and down the quiet suburban street. It opened, and she carefully composed her features, trying not to look shocked. "Hey, Mike."

The wreck at the door regarded her with bloodshot eyes, wavering on his feet. Mike Shire was thin; his sweats bagged on his frame, his face was stubbled and his breath smelled like whiskey. Recognition dawned in the dull eyes and he waved at hand at her, a half-hearted motion. "Jill. C'mon in."

She stepped inside the silent house; the quiet accentuated by the light tick of a cuckoo clock mounted on the wall. It seemed relatively neat, although a thick layer of dust covered everything. The layer on the coffee table had tracks in it from a cocktail glass and a rectangular bottle a quarter full of amber liquid. She eyed it, dubiously. "They still got you on medication?"

He picked up his glass, and waved it at her in a salute, snorting in derision. "Yeah. If I wash it down with enough of this, it actually works."

"Mike," she said in a chiding tone. "Look – I didn't come here to lecture you, although from what I can see you could probably use it. You've got the kids - do you think Joanie would want them to lose their father too?"

His lip trembled a little, and he took a swallow of whiskey and looked away. "I'm not fit to be their father."

"Not right now, you're not," agreed Jill. "But how about trying to get there?" He was silent, and she sighed. "Look, I'm not here for that – I'm here because I need a favor."

He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. "A favor?"

She met his gaze directly. "Yeah, I want you to come to L.A. with me."

He gave a short huff of disbelief, and shook his head at her blatant insanity. "L.A?"

She was undeterred. "Yeah. Charlie – Dr. Eppes - is going through a rough time right now. I think it would help him if you talked to him – gave him a little pep talk. Maybe if he heard it from you, from someone else the bastard almost brought down, but survived, it get through to him. I took some leave; you're already on leave – what would it hurt to take a little trip?"

He shook his head, looked away. "I'm in no condition to travel."

"Like hell you aren't. You can if you want to. Put the booze away for a couple of days, bring your meds with you."

He looked back at her. He knew she wasn't just doing this for Dr. Eppes – she was doing it for him, too. It wasn't going to do any good, at least on his part, he thought, but what the hell? He could be drunk, drugged, and miserable in L.A., just as well as here, if it would make her feel better. He shrugged, and drained his glass. "Sure. Why not?"

She stared at him in surprise; she hadn't though it would be that easy. "Okay, look, give me some time to get us flights. It may take a couple of days." She headed for the door, opened it, and paused. "How are you fixed for dinner?"

He waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "Okay – there's stuff in there."

She gave him a wry look. "Yeah. I'm sure. I'll be back at around five-thirty. I'll bring the food, you do the dishes." Before he could protest, she was gone, the door shutting firmly behind her.

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Charlie stiffened, and slid into space again. He was making the transition from sleep to a waking state more easily now – it helped if he kept his eyes closed until he was immersed in a problem first – he didn't have to deal with sensory visual inputs while he focused. Still, the experience was terrifying, every time; those first unguarded moments when he woke were full of horrible things, lurking on the edges of his consciousness; he had to push them back, hard. Those things guarded the way to the outside world – he knew he had to pass through them to get there, and he knew he couldn't. What was left of his rationality was still intact, but brittle – he felt instinctively his mind would shatter, like glass, if he was forced to deal with any more horror.

In his mind, he reached out a hand and touched a band of equations, glittering in the blackness like diamonds, and sighed with relief and pleasure as he connected with them. He opened his eyes – and immediately closed them. Don was there – he got a brief glimpse of his face, and even when he closed his eyes, it floated in the darkness of his mind like a vision. He whispered to himself, trying to shut out the sound of his brother's voice. He wasn't ready to come out yet, and Don was a threat – Don could pull him back. He could turn down anyone else, but not Don… He could hear the vision speaking, even though he'd shut out the real Don, the one waiting outside. "C'mon, Charlie," the vision teased, with a gentle smile. "I thought you had a little more backbone than that."

"Go away," Charlie whispered, and shut his eyes tightly. "Go away…"

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End Chapter 35

_A/N: Well, you guys are no help at all. :) In the last set of reviews I've got 6 of you for Amita, and 6 for Jill. You're going to make me figure this out on my own, aren't you? I love you anyway. Thanks for the comments and reviews - they mean a lot, and at this point in the story, more than you might think. I've got three different climaxes rolling around in my head at the moment. I'm only five chapters out in front of you now, and beginning to sweat a little. Or maybe it's the fact that it's 90 degrees outside. _


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: A little Don comfort for you..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 36**

Three days later, Susan Raine stood and watched the camera feed from Charlie's room. There had been no change in his condition; although after observing him for two days, she could see tiny signs that he was sometimes dimly aware of what was going on around him, although it was more 'sometimes,' and 'dimly,' than not. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Don Eppes make an uncertain attempt at conversation. It was quite interesting, she noted, that Charlie would increase his lip movements and shut his eyes when his brother talked.

She knew from her separate discussions with the agent that he felt to blame for the situation, and that he suspected deep down, Charlie blamed him too – it was obvious Charlie only behaved that way around him, Don had told her – his brother didn't try to shut out the others the way he did Don. As she stood there and watched it happen yet again, watched Charlie's eyes close, and the Don's shoulders slump with dejection, she recalled her interview with Alan, that first afternoon.

--

"So, Alan, how would you characterize Charlie's relationships with others?" she'd asked.

He'd sighed, and rubbed his face wearily. "Charlie doesn't have many friends, to be honest – he never has, although he's very close to the friends he does have. His closest friend is probably Larry Fleinhardt."

She'd nodded. "The man who stopped in an hour ago."

"Yes. They go way back – they met at Princeton when Charlie was teenager." He paused, and a look of pain crossed his face. "He has a girlfriend, also, Amita, although they had a falling out just before this happened. I don't think they had a chance to resolve it."

Susan jotted down some notes. "And how serious was that relationship?"

He sighed again. "Pretty serious – I really think Charlie was working up to proposing. Now – I'm not so sure." At her questioning look, he continued. "Someone, a friend of hers, sent him a picture of her kissing another man."

A pained expression crossed Susan's face. "Ouch."

Alan nodded. "Exactly. That happened right before this – I didn't find out about it until after Charlie was gone, although he had seemed troubled in the last day or so before he was – taken."

She frowned, and scribbled another note. "How about your relationship with him?"

"Mine? Good, at least from my perspective. His too, I think. I live with him, you know. He bought the house from me. Oh, we get on each other's nerves from time to time, nothing serious, but to be honest, I was thinking of moving out and getting my own place, to give him and Amita some room. We've talked about it before, and truthfully, I don't think he wanted me to go. He gets a little protective of the people close to him – me, and Donnie."

"Separation anxiety."

"Maybe."

"You mentioned your wife was deceased. How did he take that?"

Alan shook his head, ruefully. He had very nice eyes, thought Susan absently, and then with a mental shake focused on his words. "Not very good, I'm afraid. He went off into this – retreat -,"

"Retreat?"

Alan paused at the sharpness of her tone. "Oh, not like this. He was still functioning – not well – but he was eating and sleeping, at least when we reminded him, and he was moving around, speaking. No, he went off in the garage and worked on a mathematical analysis for months, while she was dying – some unsolvable math problem, P vs. NP. He did a similar thing once after that, when Don was shot, although that time it was only for a week or so. I never really understood it, and neither did Don, although Margaret, his mother, seemed to. He'd had an episode like that when he was away at Princeton, and she was with him then. I think it gave her some insight."

"He was close to her."

"Very. Closer to her than to me, at least at the time. I think he and I have come a long way in recent years, but to be honest, I didn't, and don't, always understand him. His mind…," he waved a hand. "He's extremely gifted, but he doesn't always think the way we do. He ignores some things, practical things, but can focus like you wouldn't believe on the things that interest him."

"It sounds like he has an extraordinary ability to shut things out, and unusual powers of concentration."

He looked at her. "You think this is similar to what he did before."

She studied him for a moment. "I'm trying not to draw any conclusions yet, but it does seem there's a similarity, yes." She looked down at her notepad. "And his relationship with his brother?"

Alan sighed. "Now there's a mystery. They were never extremely close, growing up – it wasn't that they didn't get along; they just didn't do much together. Five years is a pretty big span, at least when you're young. It didn't help that Charlie was always with tutors – it probably seemed to Don that his brother took a lot of our attention."

"He was resentful?"

Alan smiled a little. "If he was, you'd never know. Don was, and is; good at hiding any emotions he doesn't want you to see. You'd have to ask him that question, although I wouldn't blame him if he were, just a bit. We all sacrificed a lot to get Charlie the education he needed. Money, time – Margaret and I spent years apart while he was at Princeton."

"Do you regret that?"

Alan shook his head. "Never – a gift like Charlie's come along so rarely – we felt it was our duty to give him every chance to use it. It wasn't just a personal question – it was a duty to society. Who knows what a mind like that could contribute to the world?"

"Don felt that way, too?"

Alan sighed. "I'm afraid we didn't really give him a say in the matter. I'm not sure he would have thought of it that way - he was just a child himself, although he was always very independent, good with people. A natural leader. He left home for several years for school and during the time he worked in Fugitive Recovery – he just came back to L.A. five years ago or so. When he came back, I think he and Charlie had to start all over – they were both adults, and they weren't close as children – although Charlie idolized Don, still does, I think. And Don – I'll say one thing – he's always been very protective of Charlie, even as child."

"So they weren't close when Don moved back – how about now?"

Alan smiled wistfully. "About a year after Don was back, they started working together. Charlie initiated it - he wormed his way into working on one of Don's cases, offering to consult. As it turned out, he's been able to help Don with a lot of them –applying mathematical theory to help them analyze situations, facilitate searches, you name it. During the process, they've become quite a bit closer, although I'm still not sure they're on the same page. Charlie told me once that Don "lets him," work on cases, and insinuated that he did it to be close to Don."

She looked thoughtful. "So Charlie sees Don in a controlling position in the relationship. Does Don take advantage of that?"

Alan sighed. "Not consciously. He's very intense, very driven – they both have that in common. When Don's working a case, he leans hard on his team, on himself, on Charlie, to resolve it as quickly as possible. He demands a lot out of people, but no more than he does from himself. Sometimes he asks more of Charlie than he realizes – Charlie does have a full time teaching job, in addition to research and writing. It's partly Charlie's fault, though – he rarely says 'no' to Don, no matter how overextended he is, so Don doesn't always realize how hard he's pushing."

"So Charlie idolizes him, you say – how do you think Don feels about him?"

Alan's smile was filled with sadness. "If you'd asked me that a couple of weeks ago, I'm not sure what I would have said. Don's hard to read, and let's face it, he sacrificed a lot as kid for Charlie – there had to be some resentment. After this, though, I don't think there's a question. I think he's realized he loves Charlie, just as much as Charlie loves him."

--

Susan came out of her reverie as she noticed motion on the video feed. Don had stood, placing himself protectively between his brother and an aide, who came in pushing a cart. She'd better get in there, Susan decided; she needed to observe this in person.

She'd ordered the sponge bath herself. The patient certainly needed one, and although she knew there was a chance he might be extremely uncomfortable with it after his ordeal, she needed to try to have him start to deal with the fundamentals of everyday life again. She hurried down the hall, and pushed into the room just in time to hear Don say; "I don't care what your orders say, I don't think it's a good idea."

"I do," interjected Susan smoothly. "I ordered it. We need to get him to start dealing with the more mundane tasks of life again. I started with bathing, because we don't need interaction on his part – we can do the work for him. Don't worry, I intend to observe, and I'll have Jackie stop it if he seems too uncomfortable."

"Observe?" Don looked at her incredulously. "It's not bad enough that he has to go through something that might remind him of – whatever he went through – everyone has to watch? You don't think that will make him uncomfortable?"

"Actually, I hope it_ does_ make him uncomfortable," Susan countered. "It's not going to be a comfortable process for him to come out of this. I'm hoping we get any reaction at all."

Don looked at her, looked back at Charlie, then back to her again, and shrugged resignedly. "All right. You know best." He moved to go past her, but she stopped him.

"No – I think you should stay."

He stared at her, and colored a bit. He suddenly was devoutly wishing he hadn't talked his father into going home for a shower and a nap. "I'm not sure I need to see this."

She returned the look, coolly. "You probably should. If we don't get him to come out of this, you may need to do it yourself in the future."

His mouth opened; then closed. "Uh - ," He got command of himself and waved a hand, stepping aside toward a chair. "Go ahead."

The aide, Jackie, was waiting patiently, and at Susan's nod, pushed the cart closer. On it were towels, lotion, and other toiletries, and a basin of warm water that smelled of disinfectant soap. She untied Charlie's gown at the neck and gently removed it. She looked at Don. "I could use some help turning him."

He looked slightly panicked, but as he caught Susan's slightly amused look, his jaw jutted stubbornly, and he rose to help. At Jackie's instruction and with her help, he carefully turned Charlie on his side, facing away from them. Jackie laid a towel on the bed and then gently wiped his back with a damp washcloth. Don's frowned as he watched; some of the worst bruises had yet to fade, and Charlie's ribs were clearly visible. As Jackie moved lower with the cloth, she ducked under his arm and he moved up, toward Charlie's shoulders, still helping to keep him propped on his side, and looked away. He'd wiped his brother's rear as a baby, but he had no desire to see it done as an adult. He was acutely aware of Susan Raine, standing there silently, watching.

"You can lay him back down now," Jackie instructed him, and he realized she'd been waiting for him to do just that. He lowered Charlie to lie on his back again, and stepped hastily back with relief, which quickly faded as he saw his brother's face. Charlie's eyes were closed, but his brow was furrowed, as if in pain, and his breathing was harsh and rapid.

"Maybe that's enough for today," he said, looking at Susan.

A corner of her mouth quirked at his worried expression. Protective, Alan had said. Protective, indeed. "We might as well finish," she said. "We'll bathe the front of him quickly, and give him a shave. His face has been twitching for the last two days – I think the beard is itching. Your father said he doesn't normally wear one. I'd like to stick to what is normal for him."

Don looked uncertainly toward Charlie, but Jackie hadn't waited for his agreement, she had begun washing his arms and legs. Again, he looked away as she progressed to the lower part of his torso, wincing as he spied the catheter, wondering if contact there was disturbing Charlie, wondering if he'd been touched…

Susan watched, her eyes darting back and forth between Charlie and Don. Charlie was definitely starting to struggle, his body was rigid and his breathing ragged. Don was turned away from him, running a tortured hand through his hair, as if he could feel his brother's distress – and perhaps he could, she thought. He turned back to look at Charlie, and she did also, just as Jackie picked up a clean washcloth, pulled a sheet over Charlie's lower body, and began to wash his chest.

Don watched as she wiped carefully with the damp cloth. Charlie's chest hair was starting to grow in again, but it was mere stubble yet. It had to itch also, reflected Don. He'd thought this part of the bath might feel good to Charlie, but if anything, his brother was growing more agitated. His breathing was fast, and starting to hitch, his eyes still shut tightly. He was whispering to himself, his lips moving rapidly. Jackie finally put down the washcloth, and Don breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

Not quite. He had forgotten about the shave, although it never occurred to him it would be more traumatic for Charlie than having his private parts swabbed. It was obvious, though, as soon as Jackie began to lather the shaving cream on one side of his face; that this was at least as disturbing to Charlie as having his chest washed. He was so rigid now that his limbs were jerking with slight uncontrollable movements, and his gasps were almost vocalizations. Jackie, too, was glancing uncertainly at Susan, obviously wondering if she should proceed, but Susan nodded. Jackie turned back to Charlie, stroked gently with the disposable razor, a single swipe down his cheek, and as she did so, Charlie moaned, the first sound he'd made, at least while awake, since he'd been recovered. His eyes flew open wildly; then shut again, tightly, and a sob escaped.

"Stop," said Susan.

'_Thank God,_' breathed Don to himself, watching.

"You finish it," she said, and he looked around wildly to see whom she was directing. She regarded him calmly. "You try it – he may be more comfortable with you. If it's still too much, we'll stop for today."

He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. He'd try it, he thought, to humor her; otherwise, she might try to continue with Jackie. If it continued to upset Charlie, he could make sure it stopped – he'd be holding the razor. He took the razor, and moved to Charlie's side, keeping his movements slow and gentle.

"Hey, Buddy," he said softly, and immediately the jerking ceased, although Charlie's body was still rigid and his eyes were closed. It was almost as if he were listening. The look on his face broke Don's heart – in spite of the closed eyes, he looked so frightened…

"Just relax, okay? I'm going to get rid of this beard; it's got to be itching, right?" He took a swipe of the razor, Charlie tensed, and another sound, like a sob escaped. A single tear somehow found its way from behind a tightly closed eyelid and rolled down the side of Charlie's face, and Don felt a lump grow in his throat; and his own eyes sting suspiciously.

"Aw, Charlie," he murmured, and awkwardly, gently stroked the curls near his brother's temple, as if calming a small scared animal. "It's okay, Buddy, I'm not gonna hurt you." He began to shave again, carefully working around the feeding tube, murmuring softly all the while. Charlie slowly relaxed, his breathing began to calm somewhat. It was still mechanical and fast, and his body was still held taut, but the unbearable tension, the quivering, had receded.

Don finished, and carefully wiped the last bits of shaving cream from Charlie's face with a towel. His brother looked more like – well, his brother; he had to admit, although without the beard, Don could see how thin his face was. "There, that wasn't so bad, now was it? That's gotta feel a lot better." The fact was; he felt a lot better himself. After days of seeming rejection, Charlie had actually finally responded – and not to an aide – to him. He brushed Charlie's curls again, one last encouraging caress, and looked up, feeling the load on his heart lighten, just a little. Susan was positively beaming, and gave him a nod.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," she said. She nodded, with an openly appraising look on her face. "I wasn't sure you'd come to the party, agent. Nice job. You just proved me wrong." She smiled at him again, and walked out the door.

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End Chapter 36


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: I usually like to use real places in my fics; I should mention, however, that in this case, the Greene Medical Center is completely fictional._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 37**

Don went back to the office the following day. He wasn't cleared for field duty yet – he had another week before that would happen, plus Wright had dictated he schedule an evaluation with the Bureau psychologist, Dr. Bradford before he'd approve it. It was the start of a new routine – he'd show up at Charlie's room early in the morning with coffee and a bagel, spend some time talking to him while he ate his breakfast, and give him a shave. He'd take a long lunch and run back over to see him midday; then grab a quick bite after work and show up in the evening, staying until visiting hours were over, around ten p.m.

Alan too, had reluctantly started spending time at work – it wasn't fair to saddle his partner with the sole burden for so long. He was working half days at the office in the mornings, and bringing some work with him to Charlie's room in the afternoons. He would stay into the evening, and leave at around seven or so, usually around an hour or two after Don had shown up. That schedule was perfect, Dr. Raine had told them; Charlie got a lot of stimulus and interaction with the people closest to him, and Susan spent time with him in the morning while they were gone, trying different ways to get him to respond, bit by bit, to the outside world.

The progress was slow, but the first sponge bath and shave had been a breakthrough. Susan didn't say it aloud, but she felt strongly that even though Charlie was obviously close to his father, it was Don who was the key to getting Charlie to pull out of his shell. The brothers obviously elicited strong emotions in each other, not all of them positive, although she suspected that underlying them all was a deep devotion. Whether or not all the emotions were good ones were immaterial – what counted was they were strong; powerful enough to get through the barrier that Charlie had erected. Charlie's acceptance of his brother's touch and voice were the first significant sign she'd seen that they might be able to reach him, and two days later, he was spending more time with his eyes open, and his body seemed a little less rigid when he was awake.

That morning, when Don walked in, Charlie was actually sitting upright, propped against the bed, which had been adjusted to support him. His eyes were open, and although they were focused on the far wall, for a moment he looked so normal that Don faltered in mid-stride, staring. It became apparent quickly the change in position didn't mean much; Charlie still tensed as Don approached and kept his gaze locked on the wall. It was something, though, one more little step toward recovery.

Susan's voice came from behind him. "That's actually more significant than it looks. Two days ago, the rigidity was so pronounced we couldn't get him to sit upright."

Don watched as Charlie slowly closed and opened his eyes. In spite of appearing more aware, his brother still wasn't blinking normally, his gaze still far-off, fixed. He turned to look at her. "I was going to give him a shave – you still want me to do that?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "I'll let you do that; then I'll be back. There's something else I'd like to try."

Don set down his coffee and bagel, and carried the shaving kit over to Charlie's bed. There was a basin of warm water and a towel already waiting; and Don set the kit down and zipped it open. Dr. Raine had instructed them to speak as they normally would, to carry on one-sided conversations, and Don greeted him in a matter-of-fact voice. "Hey Charlie." Charlie stiffened and his lips moved slightly, but he kept his eyes open.

Don proceeded with their morning ritual, noting that, as usual, Charlie tensed even more as he began, but gradually relaxed as the grooming activity progressed. Truthfully, the idea of being his brother's barber had been uncomfortable at first, but now Don found himself looking forward to it. He was aware of a new feeling – a nurturing instinct – such as a parent might have when taking care of a small child, and he wondered if that was what it felt like to be a dad – the joy one got from selfless care for another who couldn't respond. The only difference was, kids grew up, became self-sufficient. What if Charlie couldn't get back there? That worry had been with him since they found Charlie, but he'd pushed it into the back of his mind. The longer his brother resided in that other place, however, the larger that worry grew. Like a malignancy, it occupied his thoughts; it had grown to a size he could no longer ignore. He tried hard to keep it out of his voice, however; he had to stay positive when he spoke to Charlie. He wiped Charlie's face, and pushed aside an errant curl. "Huh, it looks like they washed your hair. I bet that felt good. David, Megan, and Colby all said 'hi'…"

--

Amita paused in the doorway to Charlie's room. It was open slightly, and she could see Don sitting by Charlie's bedside. A few days ago, he'd started coming early in the morning, and it had disrupted her schedule. She, too, had been stopping by early, before she went to classes. For the last few days, Don had been there, although when she thought about it, it didn't matter much. She hadn't gotten the courage up to enter Charlie's room anyway. Instead, she just looked in from the doorway, like a child peering into a store window at a coveted toy. She kept telling herself she shouldn't approach him – that he was recovering, and her presence might not be good for him. It wasn't that she was afraid of what his reaction might be...

The guard, an LAPD officer, was used to her by now. It was always the same one, and after curious glances for the first two days, he ignored her. She heard footsteps at the end of the hall, and shot a glance sideways. Dr. Raine. It was time to go. She put hand up and gently touched the doorframe as if it could somehow transmit the caress to Charlie; then put her head down, and walked away.

--

Susan Raine shot a curious glance at Amita's departing back as she entered the room. Now there was an odd situation, she thought to herself, as she approached Charlie's bedside.

Don rose, looking at his watch. "I'm finished," he said. "I'll be back at lunchtime."

He glanced at the blank pad of paper in her hands, but the casual look turned to a stare as she placed the tablet on Charlie's lap, and laid a pen on top of it. "What's that for?"

She took a step back, and motioned for him to do the same. "What does it look like?" She looked at Charlie, and spoke in a louder tone. "Charlie, I gave you some paper. Why don't you write down what you're thinking about?"

Charlie sat there, staring at the wall, motionless except for the mechanical breathing, the slow open-and-close of his eyelids. Don watched him skeptically, and as the seconds turned into minutes, he shot the doctor an irritated glance. He was beginning to think she wasn't as good as she was reported to be. He opened his mouth to tell her he was leaving, when she said, "That's good, Charlie, now write down what you're thinking."

Don jerked his head back around so fast, he got a spasm in his neck. Charlie had picked up the pen with his good hand, which was luckily his dominant one, and had lowered his blank gaze to the tablet on his lap. Don stared, his mouth open, and absently rubbed at his neck. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then suddenly, Charlie started to write, slowly at first, then faster. Don and Dr. Raine exchanged a glance, and then moved quietly closer, trying to see what he was writing without disturbing him. They could have charged up and tackled the bed, for all the attention they got from Charlie; he was completely immersed now, scribbling furiously, his arm transmitting the frenetic motions all the way to his curls, which vibrated with each jerk of his hand.

He ripped off the top page and cast it aside, moving on to the next as Susan snagged the paper, holding it so both she and Don could read it, and as Don looked at it, he wasn't sure whether he should be comforted by this new turn of events, or not. The page was covered with Charlie's familiar scrawl, but it meant nothing to them.

Susan frowned. "What is this?"

Don shook his head. "Beats me." They stared at the paper. Numbers, letters, and symbols littered it, arranged in strings of equations that spread across the page. It reminded him of Charlie's retreat into P vs. NP, and for all he knew, it could be. He looked at her. "Is this a good thing, or not?"

She looked at him, and then at Charlie, who was still frantically regurgitating the contents of his brain onto the page. "I don't know," she admitted, her eyes still on her patient. "We'll have to see."

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It had taken Ryan Morgan several days to find out where Charles Eppes was. He was aware that the father had returned home, but Ryan's new job had kept him from being able to follow him during the day. He was still training, still with another employee all day, so he couldn't sneak away during working hours. He would park the black van with its landscaping signs down the street each evening, but the senior Eppes was never departing during those hours – he was always returning, at first late at night, the last few days around seven-thirty or eight. Ryan had to keep his distance – there was an LAPD car parked in front of the Eppes house in the evenings with an officer on watch; Don Eppes was apparently done with taking chances.

Morgan knew the father must have been coming from wherever Eppes was being treated, but Ryan was always tied up during the times when the father left the house. It wasn't until Sunday that he'd been free to follow him.

That day, he'd used the Mediclean van; if he were spotted, it would be easy for the old man to rationalize that it made sense for a medical cleaning van to be at a hospital. As the elder Eppes pulled into the entrance for the Greene Medical Center, Morgan had swung into a service entrance. There, he pulled to the side, and contemplated the property.

The Greene Medical Center sprawled over several acres, and was composed of a handful of buildings. One, set off from the others, was an exclusive private rehab center often used by celebrities, and was on gated grounds, with its own security. The main building was divided into three sub-buildings; Ryan would learn later that one of them was specifically for psychiatric care. Another sub-building was for drug and alcohol rehabilitation for the general population, and the third was for rehabilitation for those recovering from stroke or those battling neurological injury or illness. Eppes, he figured, was more than likely in the first one. The center specified in neurological and cognitive diseases and issues, and although it had a staff of surgeons and emergency specialists, including a crash team, which was necessary when dealing with older patients, it primarily dealt with rehabilitation. Ryan was certain he'd seen the facility listed on the Mediclean roster of customers; unfortunately, it wasn't one of the locations where he was training.

He had watched as Alan Eppes made his way toward the main entrance, and breathed a small sigh of relief. At least the patient wasn't in the more secure rehab center. He had sat there for a few moments more, then had put the van into the gear, and driven to a cyber café, and done some research on the facility. Then he'd driven to his apartment, a place he'd found in the paper.

It was in the back of a pawnshop in a marginal part of town. It had originally been a small bakery, and the owners had lived in the apartment in back. As the area had declined, they'd moved out, walled off the apartment from the front of the store, and leased the storefront and the apartment separately. The pawnshop had taken over the front, and the back had sat idle until Morgan had rented it. It suited him perfectly – it was dirt cheap, and was surrounded by seedy little shops, which were all closed at night, and there were very few people around after dark. That meant less chance of anyone seeing him bringing in an unconscious victim, and carting out a body later.

The need was now a constant part of his life, and he'd been settling for cutting homeless people and drunks to relieve it. Most of them were not in good shape, and the skin quality was lacking, but no one missed them when they were gone. Until he took care of Eppes, he didn't dare try for more desirable quarry. When he did, it would be elsewhere, he'd decided. A victim here, a victim there, the bodies buried or submerged where they'd never be found. He'd make his way across the country, and eventually return to Denver to take care of Allison. In the meantime, though, there was Eppes.

He did have to take one legitimate citizen before the professor, however. That person was one of the Mediclean employees who were assigned to the Greene Medical Center – there were two of them, and Ryan had drawn one of them into conversation, and figured out which one worked on Eppes' wing. It was a man named William Carter, and he worked nights; Ryan had followed him home the morning after he'd trailed Eppes' father to the medical center. There he'd shot Carter, stealing some cash and some video games from the man's apartment, making it look like a robbery. The next day, he had put in for Carter's job – after all, he was nearly done with training and ready to be assigned.

Now, it was two days after he'd found the facility, and Ryan was to start the job that evening – the Greene Medical Center preferred that their janitorial work be done during evening hours. Once he was on Eppes' floor, he would figure out how to get to him; maybe if he was really fortunate, really smart, figure out how to cut him. He closed his eyes, almost moaning in pleasure, as he remembered the feel of the scalpel as it sliced through Eppes' skin…

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The day turned out to be hellacious. Don got to office, and found Wright was waiting with the details on a dual bank robbery, which had occurred that morning, just as the banks opened. The M.O.'s were exactly the same, two banks hit simultaneously. Don and his team spent the morning and the early afternoon on the case – the team running down leads and Don coordinating from the office, researching many tips himself by phone. A description from a pedestrian of one of the getaway vehicles resulted in the apprehension of a man who they suspected was part of the team. He wasn't talking – yet. They'd spent a little quality time with him in the interrogation room until he'd lawyered up, and then charged him and put him in a holding cell, to give him some time to think about the wisdom of protecting his partners.

By the time Don came up for air, it was 3:00 p.m. It was the first day he'd missed visiting Charlie at lunchtime, and he was consumed with curiosity over what his brother had done with his pad of paper during the day. He gathered up his files from the conference room table as he glanced at his watch. Megan and David were filing out, and Colby was rising to his feet as Megan asked him, "How's Charlie?"

Don looked up at their concerned faces. They'd been visiting off and on; David had stopped by, and Megan had come by with Larry at least twice. It was Colby, however, who had visited the most often, usually later in the evening, and so far, every other night. It made Don wonder about the depth of their conversations after the Parks case – apparently a friendship of sorts had begun then. Or maybe even before that, Don reflected. It made him wonder how much he really knew about his brother, but their concern also warmed his heart. He wished Charlie knew how many people were thinking about him.

"Okay," he said, with a slight shrug that said, '_well, as okay as can be expected_.' "He's sitting up – still not responsive, but she gave him a pad of paper today, and he started writing on it."

Colby's eyebrows rose. "Wow – that's a lot of progress since I was there the other night. He's actually writing?"

Don grimaced, ruefully. "Nothing that makes sense to us. It was a bunch of equations."

"Still," said Megan, "he's expressing himself. Maybe getting it out on paper will help him work through it, get to the point where he can communicate other things."

"Maybe," Don said. He looked down at his notebook, and then up. "I almost forgot – Walker called today, said there are rumors on the street that homeless people are going missing. LAPD is trying to verify it, but it's tough – it's hard to track down either the people who are supposed to be missing, or the people who are creating the rumors. He didn't want our involvement yet until he can get some more facts, but we might get called in on that one. Just wanted to give you a heads up."

"What about McKelvey?" asked David. "Didn't he call you today?"

"Yeah," Don replied, his face darkening. "They're running into a dead end. They went through anything the killer left behind, including a scalpel he'd handled – they found no prints on it; he must have been wearing gloves. There were some prints in the bathroom on the tap handles, but they were all smudged – no good ones. There was some hair in the bathtub drain, but without DNA in the system to match against, that was pretty much useless. No word on a blue van; or any van with the plates they saw in the garage video. They're thinking he left the area, headed off for another location. Wright does too – although it doesn't sound like he'll pull Charlie's protection any time soon."

Colby scowled. "He'd better not." He shook his head. "I just can't shake the feeling that the guy's still around, somewhere."

"I know," said Don softly. "Me neither."

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End Chapter 37


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: Welcome to the story, Edna Pests. Boy, a lot of you must be reading my mind, notably, twintrekkers, tearbos, redpeacock and Ms.GrahamCracker - you're hitting close to the mark. Thanks for the reviews, everyone, you keep me motivated to keep cranking out the chapters! Charlie gets a double emotional whammy this chapter - a couple more nudges toward a conscious state._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 38**

Alan looked at his youngest son and sighed. When he'd shown up after lunch, he'd been shocked to find Charlie sitting up and writing, his bed littered with papers. Dr. Raine was watching him with a frown on her face, and she explained to Alan that he'd been writing since early that morning. There was a thick stack of papers on the table next to him; periodically, she'd collected them, examined them, and set them aside. Charlie was completely absorbed, his writing nearly frantic, although he looked exhausted. Finally, Dr. Raine took his latest tablet and the pen from him. It was like shutting off a switch; Charlie leaned back against the bed supporting him; his hand twitching from spasms generated by writing for so long, his eyes again far off, staring at the opposite wall. Alan had sat next to him and massaged his hand, and it hadn't been long before his son drifted off to sleep, worn out by his efforts.

Now, at around three in the afternoon, he was still sleeping. Alan had been sitting quietly next to him, working on a cost estimate, when a knock sounded at the door. He looked up, and a weary smile came to his face as he saw the figure in the doorway. "Jill – it's nice to see you." He rose and extended a hand as she came through the doorway, his eyes traveling over her shoulder to the tall, thin man behind her. "I thought you were in Seattle."

She smiled at him and took his hand. "Hi Alan. I was – I came back for a visit. Alan, this is Mike Shire, SAC of the Seattle office."

Alan felt a surge of sympathy as he looked at the other man. He'd heard what had happened to his wife from Don, and he could still see a haunted look in the man's eyes. He held out a hand. "Mike. It's good to meet you. I'm sorry for your loss – I'd heard from Don."

Mike's murmured thanks were quiet, and his manner somewhat tentative, but his grip was firm and heartfelt, somehow conveying an acknowledgment of their status as the family of victims. Their eyes traveled to Charlie, and Alan noticed his son's eyes were open again.

"Charlie, you have visitors."

Jill looked at Alan in surprise. "He's been responding?"

Alan sighed and lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "No, not really. He did sit up for the first time today, and the doctor gave him a tablet – he started writing and wrote for hours, but nothing that a non-mathematician can decipher, I'm afraid. The doctor says we should speak to him normally, however. She says he can hear us; he's just not processing what he hears."

Jill nodded thoughtfully, trying to compose her face as she drank in the sight of him. He looked much better; the bruising was receding and the IV's were gone. He still had a nasogastric tube in his nose for feeding, and was painfully thin, but was cleanly shaven, and had regained a bit of color in his face. She looked at Alan. "Actually, that's what we're here to do. Mike agreed to come and talk to him; we thought maybe it would help for Charlie to hear from someone else who had been – hurt – by the man who hurt him."

Alan raised an eyebrow, and he looked at Shire. He was both surprised and touched by the gesture. "That's – that's very generous of you – to come all the way here to try to help."

Shire shook his head, with a wry expression. "Thank Jill – she convinced me to come." He looked at her and held her gaze. "Now that I'm here, I'm certain it was the right thing to do – for me, also."

She sent him a tiny smile, and looked at Alan. "Would you like to get some coffee?"

Mike Shire's gaze returned to the figure in the bed, barely hearing Alan's acceptance, or Jill's promise to return shortly as they left the room. He had spoken the truth – it had been the right thing to come, although now that he was alone with the young man, he wasn't quite sure what he should say. Would it even matter, he wondered to himself, as he looked at the far-off expression on Charlie's face. Even if Eppes could hear him, he didn't know him that well – what in the hell could he say that would register? _Sorry you had to go through that. Sorry you were beaten, abused. Sorry you had to witness my wife's death…_

The thoughts broke off suddenly as a huge wave of grief swept through him at the thought of Joanie, and he felt tears come to his eyes. He shuffled forward and felt for the chair next to Charlie's bed, sinking into it, as he ran a hand over his eyes. God, this was hard, it was making him think, remember, making him face his grief, without the numbing effect of alcohol. He sat for a long moment with his head bowed, and then raised it and looked at Charlie. "Charlie, it's Mike Shire. I think you probably remember me from the meetings, remember my wife, Joanie." His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat.

There was no response; the professor stared straight ahead and his eyes closed, then opened again, deliberately, although his breathing had quickened. Somehow, the lack of eye contact made it easier to talk, and Mike continued. "Joanie – she – and the kids - were my reason for living. I wish you could have seen her before – she was so full of energy, of life. She'd walk into a room and just light it up; she had this way about her – she just put people at ease, you know? She was a great mom, a good person – it made no sense that this would happen to her."

He wiped another tear from his face; they seemed to be unstoppable, and he'd given up trying. "I know you were there when she died – I know it had to be terrible." His voice shook, and he closed his eyes, fighting another almost overwhelming surge of grief. When he opened them, he saw that Charlie's eyes were now closed, also, his face drawn into a look of pain, his good hand clutching the sheet.

"I'm sorry," said Mike, "I don't mean to hurt you. I know you went through horrible things, and saw even worse. What I want to tell you is – he took Joanie from me. There's nothing I can do about that. Your dad, and your brother – they care about you just as much. I can tell you this is especially hard on your brother. I know – when you're working the case, like he and I both were – you feel responsible for what happens. On top of all the pain, there's this terrible, crushing guilt. Joanie can't come back, but you can. Don't let him take you, too – don't do that to your brother. Don't let that bastard win."

He wiped his face again, rose wearily, and walked out of the room, head bowed, missing the single tear that streaked down the professor's face.

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Don's cell phone beeped; and he flipped it open as he guided his SUV through the early evening traffic, his heart skipping a beat as he glanced at the number. "Yeah, dad? How's Charlie?"

"He's fine." His father's voice was weary, but not distraught, and Don felt a twinge of both relief and disappointment. "He wrote for the entire morning and into the early afternoon, and Dr. Raine finally took the tablet away from him to let him rest."

"What did he write? Anything that means anything?"

"No – it's all math. Dr. Raine was wondering if we could give it to another mathematician and have them look at it, try to figure out if there's something there besides just an analysis. I was thinking that Amita might do it."

Don's mouth twisted in a tight line. He hated to ask her for anything – she couldn't even bother herself to visit. "Whatever. We'll find someone. Is that why you called?"

"No, actually – are you on your way here?"

"Yeah. I'm only fifteen minutes from there."

"Okay, good, I need a favor. Susan wants you to pick up some ice cream – preferably Charlie's favorite."

Don gaped. "Ice cream? He's eating?"

"Not yet. I think she wants to try it."

"Yeah – I, uh, okay – there's a grocery store in the next block. I'll be there in a bit."

Twenty minutes later, he was striding down the hospital corridor, with a pint of the most expensive strawberry ice cream he could find. He'd had to think for a moment about which was Charlie's favorite, but memories of long ago trips to the ice cream store as kids came back to him; he remembered Charlie ordering strawberry every time. As he walked into the room, he saw that Susan and Alan were waiting for him. His eyes traveled automatically to Charlie; his brother was sitting up again, but otherwise seemed no different than he had for days. He wondered why Dr. Raine thought he'd be willing to eat.

He gave her a nod and handed Alan the ice cream, and his father sat beside Charlie with the pint and a spoon. Don glanced at the NG tube in Charlie's nose, and then at Dr. Raine. "He can eat with that tube in him?"

"Small amounts of something relatively liquid," she said. "I'd really like to see if we can get him off that tube – in addition, taste is a powerful sense. The more sensory stimulation we can give him, the better."

Alan dished up a bit of ice cream on the end of the spoon, touched it gently to Charlie's lips, and waited.

--

Charlie braced himself at the sound of his brother's voice. He had been focusing on keeping at bay the conversation from someone else a short time before – Mike Shire, who had told him he needed to come back, for Don's sake. He'd fought it off, fought off the acknowledgment that his brother was now here, along with his father. They were too distracting; they pulled him out of the numbers, toward the pain.

A spoon suddenly appeared in front of him and touched his lips, and he closed his eyes, his heart starting to pound. An image flashed through his mind – he was suddenly back at the abandoned house with his captor – the killer was holding him, feeding him soup…

--

As Alan held the spoon to Charlie's lips, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the closed eyes, the expression of despair, the strangled half-cry that came from his son. He immediately pulled the spoon away, watching with chagrin as Charlie's face twisted in fear and he began to breathe heavily, his good hand balled into a white-knuckled fist, pressing into the sheets. Alan stood abruptly, the ice cream container and spoon still in his hands, and began to back away. "Apparently this wasn't a good idea." He tried to speak lightly, but his voice was shaking, and Dr. Raine frowned, a look of concern on her face.

Don stepped forward and took the spoon and container from his father. "Let me," he said, and moved forward to sit in the chair, ignoring their surprised expressions. "Charlie," he said softly, and reached out a hand, brushing the curls at Charlie's temple with the back of his hand. The gesture had seemed to calm his brother during the shaving sessions, and Don used it again, now. He spoke soothingly for a moment, his voice just a murmur, and gradually, Charlie's breathing slowed.

"Chuck, it's just me, and it's just ice cream. Don't think, just take a taste."

"No," Charlie whispered, his eyes still tightly closed.

Don exchanged a startled look with Alan and Dr. Raine, then turned back to look at his brother. Had Charlie just responded to him, or was he speaking to whatever or whoever was inside his head? "Come on, Charlie," he said, a little more forcefully, and decided to challenge him, to push a bit. "I thought you had a little more backbone than that. Do it for me." He got a fresh bit of ice cream on the spoon, and pressed it gently to Charlie's lips.

Charlie's eyes were still shut, but he had opened his mouth slightly and Don seized the opportunity. He gently slid the bit of frozen confection onto Charlie's tongue. A puzzled look appeared on Charlie's face, and he opened his eyes. They still appeared to be focused on something else, but the fear was fading, and replaced by a look of wonderment. Don couldn't help but grin as the tip of Charlie's tongue appeared and licked a pink spot of cream on his upper lip. "Good stuff, hey, Buddy? Come on, let's have some more."

He shoveled in another bit; Charlie took it, but this time he laid back and turned his head away to face the window. His hand still gripped the sheets tightly, and he closed his eyes, his breathing still rapid and mechanical. "That's enough," said Dr. Raine, quietly.

Don swiveled to face her, protesting. "We just got started – he was doing fine -,"

"He's done a lot today," Dr. Raine interrupted him. She was smiling, but her voice was firm. "He did do well, but we're trying to ease him out of this, not yank him out. He's sending you a signal – he's had enough for now. We'll try something else tomorrow morning."

Don looked at his father as if for support, but Alan shook his head, although he too, looked a little disappointed at her words. "She's right, Donnie," he said softly as Dr. Raine left the room. "He did all of that writing, and Mike Shire came in to talk to him this afternoon – Charlie looked a little shaken up when he left."

Don stared at him. "Mike Shire!"

Alan nodded. "He and Jill Cash came down from Seattle, just to see Charlie. It's quite amazing when you think about it, and especially when you see the man – he didn't look well." He gestured at the spoon and the container, still in Don's hands. "You might as well eat that – you look like you could use a pound or two, yourself. Speaking of which, I'm going to make a pan of lasagna tonight – I'll package up some portions, freeze them, and run them over to your place one of these evenings – something you can microwave when you get home."

"That's okay, Dad, you don't have to do that – I've been grabbing a bite from the cafeteria here every night."

Alan sighed. "I know – but cooking relaxes me, and I need to do something when I get home before I try to go to bed. Plus, you could apparently use something besides cafeteria food." He fell silent, and they both stared at Charlie for a moment.

The silence was heavy, and it brought up Don's darkest worries. "Do you think he'll come out of this?" He hadn't really meant to ask the question, but it seemed to come out of its own accord. He really didn't want the response, either, but got one anyway.

"I don't know," said Alan, quietly. He gazed at Charlie, the soft light in the room reflecting in his eyes. "I hope so." He put a firm hand on Don's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "I'm going now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Don sat hunched in the chair with his elbows on his knees; and with a sigh, scooped up a spoon of ice cream, and ate it reflectively, morosely staring at the figure in the bed. He swallowed, still staring, the spoon suspended in midair. He blinked, then, sighing, he laid the spoon on the table, pitched the container in the trash, and put his face in his hands.

Day after day of heartbreak, of Charlie's lack of response, of sleepless, tormented nights had finally caught up with him. He felt heavy, like his body and mind alike were weighed down with lead, and a deep despair settled in his soul. He could feel tears stinging his eyes, and he took a deep unsteady breath. "Charlie – I don't know what to tell you – to let you know everything will be okay – you know it's gonna be okay, right? It's okay to come out."

He raised his head, and looked at Charlie pleadingly. His brother's head was still turned away, facing the window, and Don suspected that his eyes were closed. "I can't - I can't do this, if you don't come back. I'm sorry, I know it was my fault – I should have never left you or Dad unprotected. And you know that thing I said over the phone, about not liking you – you know that was an act, right? I was trying to get him to think you weren't who he wanted - I thought, hell I don't know what I thought, I was about out of my mind. Anyway, it's behind us now – I want you to come back – I love you." He dropped his voice and whispered, as if to himself, something he would never have admitted a few weeks ago. "I need you, Buddy. Please, just come – back…"

His voice broke on the last few words; he could go no further, and he put his head down with a quiet intake of breath, a half-sob. He had no idea that his brother's eyes were open, and as Charlie stared out the window, he blinked.

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Ryan Morgan pushed the cleaning cart down the hallway at 11:30 p.m., and stopped at the door. It was Eppes' room, he was sure of it, but there was no guard, and he paused in confusion. There was an empty chair in the hallway just outside the room; and there were none in front of the others – it had to be a chair for the guard. He felt a flash of chagrin; he hadn't planned anything that night other than a scouting mission, and if this were a mistake on their part – if they'd left Eppes unguarded and Ryan was not ready for this opportunity, he'd be furious with himself. With a pounding heart, he looked down the hallway. He could see a portion of the nurses' station at the end of it, but it was several yards away, and the station curved around out of sight. If there was a nurse working there, she was out of view, and it followed then, that so was he. He gently pushed down on the door handle, and eased open the door, just a bit.

In the reflected light from the hallway, he could just make out a prone form in the bed against the far wall, but it was the figure near the door in a chair who got his attention. There _was_ a guard; he was slumped in a recliner inside the room, and Ryan could see his face, slack, eyes closed, and hear the regular breathing. Sleeping on the job – no wonder the man had chosen the chair _inside_ the room – no one could see him doing it. Still, he would make things difficult – he would hardly stay asleep if Ryan waltzed in and began cutting. He might stay sleeping, however, if Ryan made it fast, snuck in silently, a hand on the mouth, a scalpel drawn across the neck, quick and quiet, and then out again…

The problem was; that wasn't what Ryan wanted. He wanted to take his time, to see the professor watching him with frightened eyes as he flayed him, as he caressed that glorious skin. His eyes narrowed, and he softly drew the door shut as the guard stirred and snorted in his sleep. There might be a way. It would take some preparation, but there might be a way.

End Chapter 38


	39. Chapter 39

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 39**

Don trudged in the next morning, carrying his bagel and coffee, to find Charlie already awake and sitting up, propped against his pillows. Don set down his breakfast and proceeded with his brother's shave, speaking softly, noting the dark circles under Charlie's eyes. As soon as he was finished, Charlie turned his head away, toward the window. Don frowned as Susan Raine walked into the room. "He seems tired."

"He had a rough night," she said, in a quiet aside to Don. "Nightmares - I think we're getting a lot of memory breakthrough while he's sleeping and transitioning from sleeping to waking. But look at him – do you notice anything different?"

Charlie's face was turned away from them. He always faced forward when he was awake, his eyes glued to the far wall; when his head was turned as it was now, it usually meant he was sleeping. Don stepped forward for a closer look, and realized that Charlie's eyes were open. His gaze roved over his brother's face, slowly, and then a look of comprehension dawned on his face. "It looks like he's looking out the window."

Susan smiled. "Not only that, his eyes are tracking – they're moving, focusing – not all of the time – sometimes he retreats, and he never makes eye contact, but still, it's a change."

Don watched as Charlie slowly closed and opened his eyes. "He's still not blinking."

Susan sighed, and nodded. "That's true – it seems as though he's afraid to relinquish any control. I think he's ready to get up today – with help. In fact, I had his catheter removed. Later, we'll try a trip to the bathroom." She looked at Don and smiled. "One more thing – I'm surprised you missed it."

Don stared, and then mentally slapped his forehead, rolling his eyes a bit at his own lack of observation skills. "His feeding tube is out."

She grinned. It actually said a lot about the man that he noticed his brother's changes of attitude and expression before he noticed the missing tubes. "Yes. You're going to feed him breakfast in a bit – or if we're lucky, we'll get him to do it himself." She stepped forward with a pad and pen, and laid them on Charlie's lap. Charlie's head turned forward robotically, and his eyes rested on the paper. As he reached for the pen, Susan said, "No math, today, Charlie. No numbers, no letters. I want you to draw what's inside your head."

Charlie picked up the pen, hesitating, and then quickly began to jot down an equation. Susan firmly took the pad from him. "No math, Charlie." She tore off the offending page. "If you want this back, you have to draw."

She put the tablet back on his lap, and Charlie sat for a moment, then began to put pen to paper, creating a series of jagged lines – all them sharp, their connecting points creating sharp angles.

Don stared at the paper. "It looks like broken glass."

"That's probably how he feels inside," Susan said softly.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Don turned, his mouth opening in surprise as he spied Amita in the doorway. She held herself stiffly, uncertainly, and looked at Don. "You left a message for me?"

"Yeah," he said; a puzzled look on his face. Why had she come here, instead of simply calling him?

Dr. Raine crossed the floor, her hand extended. "Susan Raine," she said.

Amita took it. "Amita Ramanujan." At her voice, Charlie had frozen, the pen still on the paper, as if glued to it.

Don shot him an anxious look, as Susan said, "Yes, I've seen you in here almost every morning. I've been wanting to tell you, you can come in to see him."

Don turned back to them in surprise. Amita had been here every morning? Why in the hell hadn't she come in to see Charlie, he wondered, but her next words had him feeling a bit sheepish.

Amita shrugged apologetically. "Don's usually here; and I didn't want to interrupt. The only reason I did this morning was because he'd left a message."

Don finally found his voice, and he tried hard to keep it civil. "Uh – yeah – Charlie did a lot of writing yesterday – pages of equations. We were wondering if you could take a look at them – see if they mean anything." He was still trying to get his head around the fact that she'd been visiting daily. Had he underestimated her?

A slight flash of disappointment crossed her face, and then it was gone, hidden under a polite expression. "Of course."

"That would be great," enthused Susan. "I have them with his files – I'll get them for you."

Charlie had laid the pen down and was staring out the window again, breathing rapidly. Don frowned – his brother's agitation was increasing, and he was about to point it out to Dr. Raine, but his thoughts were interrupted as yet another knock sounded at the door. Jill Cash peered in, with a curious look at Amita. "Can I come in?"

At Susan's nod, she stepped forward, her hand out. "I'm Jill Cash – I worked with Charlie on the case before he was kidnapped."

Susan shook her hand. "Dr. Raine, Charlie's doctor."

Don glanced at Amita, and caught a flash of something in her face – jealousy, maybe? She held out her hand as Jill introduced herself. "Amita Ramanujan – we met at the FBI office."

Jill nodded, and took her hand. "Of course, I remember you – the consultant. You work with Charlie?"

Amita's mouth tightened a bit at Jill's familiar use of Charlie's name, and her tone grew just a bit defensive. "Among other things. I'm also Charlie's girlfriend."

Don raised his eyebrows. He was beginning to think he'd definitely underestimated Amita – she looked prepared for a fight. In fact, the tension in the room was palpably increasing, as Jill looked at first surprised, then suspicious.

--

Charlie could hear the voices clearly – much too clearly. He was losing control – the memories were there waiting on the edges of his consciousness, waiting to break in and take him. The darkness and stars were dimming; it was growing lighter. He'd found he had to distract himself that morning with the view of the grounds outside the window; the equations were failing him. He'd almost broken during his shave earlier – Don's voice, his gentle hands, his words from the night before, had nearly pulled him out. Now there was another voice – one he hadn't heard in days, one that brought a different sort of pain. Amita – a flash of her smile was juxtaposed with a vision of her kissing a stranger, and it mingled with the other memories in his brain – the ones he couldn't think about, or acknowledge. The ones that would break him.

He heard the female voices, the tension in them making his skin crawl. With them was Don's voice, asking Amita to analyze something, the way he'd once asked Charlie… it made him remember…Visions exploded in his mind, garish, nightmarish, forming and splintering like glass, then reforming… His brain was spinning, the room was too close – the voices – he had to get out….

--

"I want to go outside."

The quiet phrase, delivered in a shaking voice, might as well have been a nuclear blast. All four heads swiveled to look at Charlie. He didn't return the look – he was breathing heavily, his eyes locked on the far wall, and for a moment, Don wondered if he'd been hearing things. Had his brother just told them he wanted to go outside?

Susan Raine recovered first, speaking easily. "Okay, Charlie. We'll have to put you in a wheelchair, and have an orderly push you out. Do you want someone to go with you?"

Charlie was shaking now, in obvious distress, and he lowered his head, his arms folding around his middle as if he was in pain. He mumbled something, and Susan, who had approached the bedside, her expression intent, asked, "What, Charlie?"

"D-Don," he stammered, his head still down.

Don was at his bedside instantly, and sat next to him, putting a comforting arm around his brother's trembling shoulders. "It's okay, Charlie, we'll take you out. I'll go with you."

He looked up to see the flash of Susan's white coat disappearing around the doorway. Amita and Jill were staring, both of them with concern on their faces, and Don said, "Why don't you two go, uh – chat or something. I'll come and get you later."

They shot each other a mistrustful glance and didn't respond to him, but they obeyed. Both of them slowly turned and left the room with last glances at Charlie, just as an orderly came in with a wheelchair, followed by Dr. Raine. Charlie was still shaking and had closed his eyes, breathing as if were going to hyperventilate.

"Do you still want to go out, Charlie?" Susan asked, and he nodded, without opening his eyes.

She gave a curt nod to the orderly, which somehow managed to encompass Don. "Help him into the wheelchair."

Don was observing Charlie with alarm, and looked back at Susan. "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"Maybe it's not," she agreed, her face filled with tension. "But it might be the breakthrough we've been waiting for."

Don stared at her doubtfully, but roused himself. With the orderly, he managed to grip Charlie under the shoulders and lift him into the chair. Charlie immediately hunched forward and closed his eyes, and the orderly covered both his shoulders and his lap with blankets. It seemed as though his brother was starting to slip back into a catatonic state, his lips were moving once more, and Don was torn between the thought of losing him again, and the fear of what would happen if Charlie truly did come out of his trance-like state. It had been hard not to be able to communicate, but the despair and fear he'd seen in his brother's eyes seconds ago were heartbreaking. For a moment, Don was engulfed by terror himself. What if this was it - what if Charlie cracked completely? He certainly wasn't acting rationally. What if they lost him, after all of this?

In just minutes, they were down the hall and outside, and Susan directed the orderly over to a large tree. It was a quiet spot amid some shrubbery, which lent them some privacy, and the orderly pulled the wheelchair up next to a bench. Susan gave him a nod. "Thanks – you can go now – I'll call for someone when he's ready to go back."

The orderly shot Charlie a discreet but curious look as he left. Don sank onto the bench next to his brother, and laid a hand on his injured arm above the cast, trying to offer support through touch. Charlie was rocking slightly in his chair, his eyes still closed, his breathing growing more ragged. "Make it stop," he whispered.

"Charlie," interjected Susan soothingly, but stopped speaking as Charlie's eyes opened.

They were wide and terrified, and he blinked, a real blink, then swiveled his head slowly. In spite of how fearful and desperate he looked, Don could see recognition, and as Charlie slowly turned, he could see – focus. For the first time in days, Charlie looked him directly in the eye. They stared at each other wordlessly, Charlie's lips were parted as if he was trying to get words out, but none were needed. Don could see the pain, the sorrow, the horror surfacing in his eyes, the comprehension that came with it. He knew, without words, at that moment his brother was back. Mingled with the horror was a look of disbelief, as if what Charlie saw in his mind was too terrible to be believed, and there was something else in the dark eyes – a plea for help. Don reached out and put his arms around him, as Charlie collapsed against him, still shaking, tears now spilling down his face, and Don pressed his face into the dark curls and whispered. "It's okay, Buddy. It's okay – I've got you."

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Alan burst into the room, and for a moment, his heart sank. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but Charlie looked the same as he had the day before; sitting in bed, facing the far wall. As his youngest turned his head and their gazes met, however, Alan caught his breath. "Charlie."

Don stood, stepping aside as Alan hurried forward; a wise move, because it looked as though the senior Eppes wasn't going to let anything get in his way. He embraced Charlie, who wrapped his arms around his father, and closed his eyes. Alan released his hold and stepped back slightly, scanning Charlie's face anxiously. His son still hadn't spoken, and Alan wouldn't quite believe it was real until Charlie actually talked.

"Dad." The word came out almost in a whisper, and Alan felt tears come to his eyes.

"Oh, Charlie," he said, and suddenly he couldn't continue; a huge release of emotion welled up inside him along with a flood of tears, and he sat down abruptly in the chair, a hand over his face. He felt Don's hand on his shoulder, heard his voice, filled with concern. "Dad, are you okay?"

Alan took a huge shaky breath, and drew his hand over his face. "I – never better," he managed, and then caught site of huge dark eyes, staring at him anxiously. "I'm fine, really," he hastened to assure them. He reached out and grabbed Charlie's hand. "I'm so glad-," he choked a little, and cleared his throat. "I'm glad you're back."

Charlie nodded, and looked away. He was still struggling, Alan realized, even though he was with them now. He could see a darkness, a beaten look in his son's eyes that hadn't been there before, and he gave the hand in his grip a squeeze. "Charlie – I know it's hard, but it's over now. You don't have to worry about anything other than getting well, and Donnie and I are here for you. Okay?"

Charlie gave a single, slight nod, his eyes on his lap.

Alan released his hand, and studied him for a moment. "Do you remember anything of the last few days, son?"

Charlie looked up at him, then back at his lap. "I remember people – I remember who was around me, but not everything that was said. I was trying to – concentrate." He closed his eyes and swallowed.

A voice came from the doorway, and they looked up to see Megan, with Colby and David behind her in the doorway, and behind them, Wright. Alan looked back at Charlie; his face was composed, although the dark eyes and the tenseness in the thin shoulders hinted that his son was barely keeping himself together.

"Hey, Charlie," said Megan. She was beaming, and so was David. Colby's expression was more subdued; he still looked a bit concerned, but a smile lurked around his blue eyes. "Don called us," Megan continued. "We wanted to come and see you."

Charlie gave a faint nod, but didn't return the smile, and Alan shot Don a look that said, '_Perhaps this isn't the best time for visitors,' _which Don returned ruefully. Alan didn't need to voice his opinion, however, because Susan Raine entered right behind them.

"I appreciate that you all want to see Charlie, and say hello," she said, "but now is probably not the time."

Wright spoke respectfully, but firmly. "We are investigating a serial killer, doctor, and Professor Eppes is the only one who can give us a description. I promise we won't stay long, and we'll get the rest of his story later, but we need that description."

Megan had moved to stand beside Don, and he shot her a dark look and murmured under his breath, "I wouldn't have called if I'd known this would turn into an interrogation."

"I couldn't help it," she whispered back. "Wright came up behind me while I was talking to you on the phone – I didn't know he was there. And you really can't blame him for asking – it's his job."

Charlie had shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around his torso again, as if protecting it, and he'd lowered his head, his shoulders hunched. He was starting to tremble again, and Don faced Wright, his jaw set. "We need to listen to the doctor," he said, his expression as hard as stone. "Charlie will talk when he's ready."

Wright narrowed his eyes. "I can't see how a short conversation will hurt. The entire country is breathing down our necks on this one."

Charlie was rocking slightly, and Alan shot an anxious glance at him. Colby and David's eyes flitted uncomfortably from Wright to Don, whose flinty gaze was locked on his A.D.

"You may have to care about the entire country, but I don't – my concern is this patient. I need to ask you to leave," Dr. Raine said, firmly, settling the matter. Her tone turned slightly sarcastic, as she looked at Wright. "And I know you will, because you have Dr. Eppes' best interests at heart."

Wright took a deep breath and sighed. "Look, it's my job to ask. I don't want to bother Charlie more than anyone else here." He nodded at Dr. Raine. "We'll abide by your decision, but you must let us know as soon as you think he can handle the conversation."

He turned to go, and Colby stepped forward. "It's good to have you back, Whiz Kid," he said softly, and reached out to give Charlie a gentle pat on the shoulder. Charlie had opened his eyes at Colby's voice, saw the hand reaching toward him, and started violently, leaning backwards into his pillow. His breathing was growing labored, there was terror in his eyes, and Colby snatched back his hand as if it had touched a hot stove, and flexed his fingers awkwardly, his face remorseful. He looked apologetically at Don and Alan, "I'm sorry – we'll stop by later." He looked back at Charlie, and his face and voice softened. "Take care, Charlie – I'll be back to see you – maybe later tonight, okay?"

Charlie had recovered a bit, and nodded, then closed his eyes, sinking back into his pillow. He looked drained, and when Alan reached out and took his hand, it was trembling. The group filed out, somberly, and Alan looked up as Dr. Raine spoke. "Charlie, I'd like you to eat something, and then you can rest."

Charlie rolled his head from side to side on the pillow, his eyes still closed. "I'm not hungry," he whispered. He opened his eyes, and looked at the three of them, his voice sounding tired, and just a little lost. "I don't want to remember."

Susan returned his gaze. "Do you? Remember?"

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. "Yes."

"Everything?" Susan pressed.

The answer came back in a choked whisper. "Yes."

"I thought we were going to wait," said Don, testily.

"We are," replied Susan. To Charlie she said, "I know it's difficult, Charlie, and those memories are horrible, but they're just thoughts – they have no substance. They can't hurt you. Would you like me to give you a sedative? It might help you relax."

A recollection of a hand holding a syringe came into Charlie's mind, and his eyes flew open; he looked at them as if to reassure himself that it was just a memory. He remembered the terror and helplessness of being injected, but he also remembered the numbness that followed. He craved that now, but in the back of his mind, he could hear Don saying, '_I thought you had a little more backbone than that…' _He sent a glance, almost subconsciously, toward his brother, and Don looked back at him with concern. "It's okay, Charlie," he said, as if reading his mind. "Take the sedative, eat something and get some sleep. You'll feel better if you rest."

Susan watched the exchange curiously, noting the look of relief that flashed over her patient's face. "Okay," Charlie said, looking back at her, his voice thin and unsteady.

'Eating,' meant a few spoons of oatmeal, which Alan helped him with; Charlie was too weak and his hand was shaking too badly to hold the spoon. A small amount was all he could manage, and he lay back, trembling, waiting for the injection to come. Don reached for his hand, and Charlie gripped it tightly. He closed his eyes, and only his grip told Don that he hadn't already drifted off. Still, when he spoke, Don was a bit surprised.

"He's still out there, then," Charlie said in a low voice, and opened his eyes again.

Don could see the suppressed terror in them, and it tore his heart. "Yeah," he said softly. "He's probably long gone, though – we haven't heard of any new victims since they recovered us. I'm sure he's nowhere near here, but we have a guard stationed on your room, round the clock, Charlie. You don't need to worry about him, okay?"

Charlie looked into Don's eyes and took a deep tremulous breath, a look of trust creeping into his eyes. "Okay," he said. He was silent for a moment; then said, out of nowhere, "He's good-looking; he has short light brown hair, and blue eyes."

Don was taken aback for a moment, but then he frowned. "I only saw him from a distance, but I saw longer dark brown hair, and Allison Cook, another agent who saw him up close, thought he had dark eyes."

A shudder ran through Charlie, and he closed his eyes, still clutching Don's hand. The words came out with an effort. "That was a wig, and brown contacts, I - I think. Or maybe his eyes are brown, the contacts were blue – no - I th- think his real eye color is blue. He's tall, very strong…" He swallowed, his eyes still closed, and spoke so low it was almost a whisper, "I couldn't fight him – he was too strong."

Alan and Don exchanged a glance, and looked down at the tormented face. Alan didn't want to ask the question, but he couldn't help himself. "Charlie," he said softly, "did he – did he touch you, son?"

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. He was beginning to shake again, and his voice came out in a whisper. "I gave a description. I don't want to talk any more."

He tensed as the nurse came with his injection, and gripped Don's hand more tightly than Don would have thought possible. He stood there holding his brother's hand, and Alan stood at the head of the bed, stroking the side of Charlie's head gently, as the dark eyes fluttered shut.

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End Chapter 39

_A/N: Many thanks to Tanager36, for the idea of using art to help bring Charlie back into the real world. I hadn't forgotten, T._


	40. Chapter 40

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 40**

Jill Cash swirled the drink around in her glass, staring into it morosely. She lifted it and took a gulp, and set it back on the bar again with a clunk. What was left of the ice cubes clinked in the bottom, and the bartender appraised the empty glass. "Need another?"

"Yeah," she sighed. She glanced at her watch. Seven-thirty p.m. It wasn't that late, yet.

"Tanqueray and tonic, right?"

She nodded and stared at the wet rings on the bar that had been made by her glass, barely noticing that someone had eased onto the stool next to her. "So much for your lecture that I drink too much."

She looked up in surprise, and flushed. "Mike."

Mike Shire signaled the bartender, and she watched him warily, relaxing a bit as he ordered. "Just a coke, thanks." He turned to her with a wry smile. "What did you think I was going to order? Although you'd have a hard time lecturing me now, wouldn't you?"

She turned her gaze away and glowered at the fresh drink the bartender set in front of her. "I had a rough day. And I don't make a habit of this." She took a defiant gulp of her drink.

"Relax, I was just razzing you," Mike said. A coke appeared in front of him, and he stirred it with the straw in the glass, but didn't drink; his eyes were on her. "I thought you went to see Dr. Eppes this morning."

She made a face. "I did. I was really looking forward to spending a few minutes with him."

"So why didn't you?"

"Well, for one thing, he kind of freaked right after I got there – the doctor called it a 'cognitive episode.' Basically, he woke up. They sent away all visitors except for Don and Alan Eppes. And then _she_ was there."

Shire took a draw on his straw and raised an eyebrow. "She?"

Jill's face twisted wryly. "His girlfriend. _Amita._ Remember the consultant at the L.A. office – the girl with the dark hair who picked up Charlie's work after he was taken? Her. Just my luck, the guy's taken."

'_That sounds like a conflict of interest,_' Mike thought; then caught himself, grimly. It wasn't any worse of an idea than him working on Joanie's case, or Don Eppes working on his brother's kidnapping. Nothing about this had been right from the start. The thought sequence made him think of Joanie again; she was never far from his mind, and he almost wished he had a drink in front of him. Almost, because Jill had been right, he'd needed to get off the booze. It hadn't been helping him cope – it had been keeping him from coping.

"'Girlfriend' can mean a lot of things," he said. "Just because they were going out, doesn't mean it was serious or exclusive." He eyed her appraisingly. "You really like him, don't you?"

She blushed to the roots of her spiky auburn hair. "Yeah," she said. She sounded almost shy, which wasn't something Shire had ever known her to be. "I don't know why – I hardly know him." She lifted her hand from her glass and waved it aimlessly. "It's just something, you know? I feel something - something – I don't know, something _inside_, when I'm around him." She sighed. "I wish I knew if he'd felt it too – before, well, you know. Now, everything's so screwed up – he's not going to be thinking straight for a while. He's going to need time to recover – I can't take leave indefinitely."

Shire pursed his lips. "If it turns out he's not committed, and you feel strongly enough about it, you could always put in for a transfer."

She sighed. "You know, I thought about that, but they already have a profiler in the L.A. office – Megan Reeves. And she's a damn good one, to boot." She took a drink and looked at him sideways. "What – you want to get rid of me?"

Shire smiled. "Not a chance." The smile faded, and he looked at her earnestly. "I need to say 'thank you.' You helped me out of a rut – I still have a long way to go, but you made me step outside myself and help someone else. It gave me back a sense of purpose. I don't know if I'll go back to the SAC job even if Wright would let me – I think I'd like to find something else – maybe counsel the families of crime victims. It's work that I could dedicate to Joanie – I think she'd like that."

Jill smiled, her eyes misting a little. "I think so, too."

"I want to get back on my feet – get back to my kids. For a while there, I thought I couldn't be a good father to them, but I was wrong – I know now I can be." He paused, and looked at her, his smile returning. "You can bet if I was staying on the job, I wouldn't let you go," he teased. "But since I'm not, well, hell, why don't you go for it? The worst they could say would be 'no,' right?"

"Yeah, I s'pose," said Jill thoughtfully.

Mike took a swig from his straw. "I know one thing," he said. "If they do say 'no,' I'm buying stock in any commuter airline that runs from Seattle to L.A."

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Don stepped into Charlie's room at around 8:00 p.m. The sunset was casting a warm glow through the window, glinting off the curls on the tousled head. Alan looked up from his chair as Don approached.

"How's he doing?" Don asked quietly.

Alan's gaze traveled over to Charlie's recumbent form. "Sleeping again. The sedative knocks him out, although he's been awake from time to time. Larry stopped by; they talked for just a minute or two, and Larry did most of the talking. Charlie's still having a hard time with it all, although he seemed a little better at dinnertime – we woke him up and made him eat some soup and mashed potatoes. He's starting to process the memories, although Dr. Raine expects it to take some time for him to be able to come to grips with everything – time, along with some therapy."

Don's eyes followed Alan's. "He talk about any of it?"

Alan shook his head. "Actually, I think he's still trying not to think about it, much less talk about it." He contemplated his older son. Don looked tired and disheveled. "Did you eat? You know I dropped that lasagna off at your place – I put one serving in the fridge and the rest in the freezer."

"Yeah, David went out for burgers – we ate at the office. I thought maybe I'd camp out here tonight – Charlie could probably use someone here if he wakes up."

Alan looked at him, frowning. "Actually I was planning on staying."

Don shook his head. "Dad, you've been here all day. Why don't you go home tonight? My first meeting isn't until 8:30 tomorrow – I'll just have time to get out of here and get a shower before I go in. I'll sleep in the recliner. I gotta be in the office tomorrow – maybe you can be here then."

Alan sighed. "Yeah, maybe you're right. Poor Stan – I'm going to be leaving him in the lurch again." He took a deep breath and stood, and looked at Don, then suddenly, stepped forward and embraced him. "I don't how I would have gotten through this, if it weren't for you, Donnie," he said softly. He released him, and held him at arm's length. "I don't even think you understand the magnitude of everything you've done here – but to do what you did – to bring him back, under that kind of pressure – I'm so proud of you, son."

Don's face softened a bit, but his forehead was still furrowed. "It's not over yet, Dad. He's still out there."

"I know," said Alan, mildly. "But you've been beating yourself up pretty badly over this. I think it's high time you stopped." He smiled and gave Don a slap on the shoulder. "I'll be back at 6:30."

Don watched him go, then stepped forward and pulled a chair closer to Charlie's bedside, and sat, wearily. As if he sensed him, Charlie's eyes opened, just a crack. "Hey, Buddy."

"Hey," repeated Charlie, in a half whisper. His hand twitched, and Don reached forward and covered it with his own. Charlie just looked at him for a minute from under half-closed lids, and Don could see his expression relax, love and trust pouring out from the dark eyes. He still wasn't entirely sure he'd done enough to earn that, but between Charlie's expression and his father's words, he suddenly felt as though things were beginning to right themselves. The connected feeling he got from the light contact seemed to provide a sense of healing, not just for Charlie, but for him, too, and he kept his hand in place, long after Charlie had closed his eyes again.

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Ryan Morgan frowned as he pushed the cart down the hallway. He'd been down the hall once before that night; he'd taken some equipment into an empty room two rooms up and across the hallway from Eppes' room, in preparation. The guard was outside, seated in a chair in the hallway, leafing through a magazine. He hadn't given Ryan a second glance, had no idea that Morgan was setting up for a cut…

That had been at 11:00 p.m. It was now 12:30 p.m., and the guard still hadn't gone into the room for a nap. It was the same guard, an LAPD cop, but something was different, and Ryan puzzled over it. Why hadn't the man retired yet? He stepped into a patient's room down the hall, quietly, and came out with a trashcan liner from the bathroom. It contained nothing but a few paper towels, and he emptied it into a large trash bag clipped to his cart. He really wasn't supposed to deal with trash in rooms populated by patients this time of night, but the guard didn't know that. He moved quietly down the hall, and stepped in front of Eppes' room.

The guard gave him a glance, took in his uniform, his work gloves, and his nametag, then nodded, but he didn't turn back to his magazine, as Ryan had hoped. Instead, he got up and followed Ryan as he quietly pushed open the door.

Inside, Ryan froze for an instant, as panic coursed through him. There was a reason the guard wasn't in the recliner. It was because it was occupied – by none other than Agent Eppes. The agent was laying there motionless, his eyes closed – he had apparently decided to spend the night – why? Ryan wondered. The agent hadn't stayed last night. This changed everything. He forced himself to move, to act normally, to tiptoe into the bathroom just inside the door to the hallway, and retrieve the plastic liner from the trashcan under the scrutiny of the officer. As he came out, he shot a look at Charlie, in the far bed. So close, and yet out of reach. If only the officer and the agent knew who he was – that standing between the two of them was the man they were hunting…

He walked out and put the trash liner in his bag, moving down the hallway as if nothing had happened, his heart pounding. Go into the next room, make it look routine. God, he'd been ready, too. He'd had a sedative in his pocket for the guard, and the crash cart filled with surgery supplies stashed in the empty room – he'd need to come back for it, put it back where it belonged and do it again the next night, in the hopes that the agent would decide to stay home. He would sedate the guard, inject professor Eppes, retrieve his cart, and close the door. He would time it just after the last nurse's round for the night – he would have at least four hours of uninterrupted time. He took one last look down the hall, his heartbeat finally starting to ease a bit, and disappeared around the corner, frustration starting to simmer inside. He had to wait another whole, unbearable day...

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Charlie stirred and gasped as he woke, trembling. Don was up in a flash and at his bedside. "Charlie – what is it? You okay?"

Charlie stared at him blankly, still shaking, and then sank back into the pillow as he reconnected with reality. "I was d-dreaming. He was here, in the room, looking at me." His voice sounded hollow, still ringing with the remnants of terror.

Don squeezed his arm, lightly. "You were dreaming, Buddy. Actually, there _was_ a guy in here just now – a janitor came in with the guard. Maybe you heard him and it registered on your subconscious."

"Maybe," whispered Charlie. He blinked, and looked at Don. "I'm sorry – I woke you up."

"Nah," replied Don. "I was half-awake anyway, and the janitor woke me the rest of the way. Go back to sleep, it's okay." He patted Charlie on the arm, and settled back in the recliner. "I'm right here - there's nothing to worry about."

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End Chapter 40

_A/N: Next up - Charlie faces Amita..._


	41. Chapter 41

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 41**

Amita showed up at seven that morning, and cursed her luck. She'd spent the last twenty-four hours screwing up her courage to come in and see Charlie. Now that he was awake, she couldn't put it off any longer, and deep inside she didn't want to – it was just that she was so afraid… Larry had lectured her the previous afternoon after his own visit, telling her she couldn't hide from what happened, and that she needed to face Charlie if she ever intended to make any headway. So she'd talked herself into it, showing up the next morning before class, earlier than usual, in the hopes she'd beat Don there. Unfortunately, not only was Don there, looking as though he'd spent the night, but Alan had apparently come in early also.

She had stepped up and peeked in through the door, which was standing slightly ajar, and caught sight of Don approaching the doorway, speaking over his shoulder. "Okay, Dad, Charlie – I'll see you later." He turned his head around and saw her just as he reached the doorway, and his expression changed to one of distaste, as if he'd just observed something odious.

"Amita," he said coolly, by way of greeting, and stepped around her as she murmured a self-conscious 'good morning.' She glanced at him as he strode down the hall. He looked tired and rumpled, and was obviously in a hurry.

Alan had turned toward the doorway when they spoke, and his expression was wary, but more accepting than Don's was. "Amita. You don't need to stand out in the hallway – please, come in."

She saw Charlie's eyes widen, and he looked toward her. Their eyes connected for the first time in weeks, and she simply stood still for a moment, feeling an electric undercurrent, charged with emotions, pass between them. Alan spoke, and she shifted her gaze to him, as if in a trance. "I was just going to get a cup of coffee," he said. "Why don't you come in and sit with Charlie. I'll be right back." He looked at her meaningfully, and she knew what he was thinking. '_Keep it light; don't burden him with anything heavy._' The problem was she wasn't sure if she could do that; her presence alone might disturb Charlie.

She nodded, however, and moved into the room, even though she felt a flare of panic as Alan left. She turned to see Charlie sitting up, staring at her, quiet, his dark eyes somber, and she moved toward him. She looked at him. "Charlie-," It was all that she could get out – the terror and guilt and sadness and pain of the past few weeks all coalesced at once, and she crumpled, dissolving into tears, completely overcome.

"Sit down." She heard his voice, the gentle invitation, and somehow managed to find a very blurry chair by his bedside and sink into it, tears still coming, punctuated by quiet gasps as she tried to compose herself. She finally managed to stem the tears enough to look up at him. He was watching her quietly, almost expressionlessly, but she could see a glimmer of something she couldn't identify in the dark eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She gazed at him miserably, her eyes begging him to understand. "I was wrong – I'd had too much to drink – y-you know I don't usually drink much, and it hit me harder than I expected - it d-didn't mean anything – it was a huge mistake. Charu should never have sent that to you -,"

Charlie raised a hand and stopped her stumbling flow of words. There was pain in his expression. "I'm not judging you – I have no right to judge you – we aren't married. We've never even had a conversation – an agreement, that we would date each other exclusively, although I have to admit, I guess I thought that was the case." He stopped and took a breath or two, and she realized how weak he still was, what it cost him to speak, to sit upright. He reached out an unsteady hand and took a drink of water, then looked back at her. He looked tired, and sad. "I think we'd both be doing ourselves a disservice if we didn't ask ourselves why that happened, and why this is the first time you've even come to see me in the hospital."

Tears threatened again, and were apparent in her voice. "I was afraid I'd upset you – you were trying to – recuperate, and I knew this wouldn't be easy. I_ did_ visit, even though I didn't come in. You weren't talking – I wasn't sure if should - I wanted to come…" The words sounded pitifully inadequate, even in her own ears, and her voice trailed off.

A faint smile played around his lips, but it wasn't a happy one; it looked grim, resigned, and he looked away. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he looked back at her. "I think you need some time, _we_ need some time, to find out what we really want. I think we need to back off for a while – I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with this issue right now anyway. Take some time for yourself -," he paused, his voice shaking a little, betraying how much it was costing him to say this, "see some other people if you want."

"Charlie, no," she protested, tears welling in her eyes again. "I don't want that – I want us – I want you. I want our life back."

She saw his eyes mist up and he looked away again, swallowing. "I'm not sure if that's possible yet," he said softly, his voice tinged with defeat. He looked back at her, miserably. His voice was soft, hoarse. "I have – a lot to work through, here."

She wiped tears from her face, and took a deep breath. '_This isn't only about what I want,_' she told herself, pushing back on a deep sense of loss, of disappointment. She had created this situation, and now she had to deal with the consequences. "Okay," she said. "But just so you know, I'm not going anywhere. We can back this off for a while, if you need that – but I still think we should be friends while we do it." She tried to look firm, confident, but failed – she couldn't keep the pleading look from her eyes. "Can we stay friends, at least?"

Charlie stared back at her. If they'd had this conversation before his kidnapping, he would have gladly accepted that proposal, hell, he'd probably have gone back to her, as she'd first asked. At that point, he'd been strong enough to handle it – to live through subsequent disappointment if it turned out she really didn't know what she wanted and was unfaithful again. Now, though, he wasn't strong – he was barely hanging on mentally and emotionally, and he knew if things didn't work out, he wasn't sure if he could survive. He couldn't help but compare himself to the man in the picture – the stranger was tall, confident, good-looking, and he was a wreck, physically and mentally. He couldn't compete with that, he told himself, and even though Amita was blinded by her own guilt now, eventually, she would realize that and come to her senses. The friendship would grow awkward, strained, sapped of energy until it finally disintegrated, and then she would leave. So when he spoke the words and saw the relief flash in her face, for him, they had an opposite effect – they felt like good-bye.

"Sure," he said quietly. "We can be friends."

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"What do you mean; he said he's ready to talk?"

Don stared at Wright, as Megan, Colby and David gathered around his desk. Don had only been at the office for an hour; he'd just spent the night at the hospital with his brother, and Charlie hadn't seemed even marginally ready for a discussion. "Just what I said," replied Wright. "Dr. Raine called me, as I had requested, and she told me Charlie said he's ready to talk."

"He's still struggling with this," Don protested. "This can't possibly be a good idea."

Wright shrugged. "I'm sure the good doctor wouldn't have called me, then." Understanding crept into his expression. "I _am_ limiting the number of people in there, however. Reeves and Granger can officially take the statement, and I'm sure you'd like to be there also, Eppes." Don was scowling at him, and he raised an eyebrow. "I imagine it took a lot for your brother to agree to do this so soon. I wouldn't keep him waiting for you."

Don could hardly argue with that. Within a half hour, he, Colby and Megan were striding down the corridor to Charlie's room, and he was trying to get his head around what was about to happen. He'd pushed the details of what had happened to Charlie out of his own mind for the past several days; he'd been so consumed with getting him healed, he hadn't really given much thought to what had put him in that state to begin with. Now though, it was looming in front of him; his mind brought up the video, the awful pictures. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this himself, and he couldn't imagine that Charlie wanted to talk about it. It was with more than a little trepidation that he pushed open the door to Charlie's room. Alan was still there, concern on his face, along with Dr. Raine. Charlie was sitting up in bed, pale but composed, although there was tension in his face.

Charlie looked up as they came through the door, and felt his heart rate increase a little. In spite of his insistence that he get this over with, he wasn't entirely sure he could get through it without breaking. He needed to, though, he knew. Every minute the killer was out on the streets, innocent people were at risk, and Charlie couldn't live with the thought that, by not talking, he might be allowing others to go through the horror that he'd witnessed firsthand. No matter what it cost him, he needed to give them whatever he could.

There was more to his rationale for talking though, than that. There was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but that manifested itself as a growing sense of dread. He'd had a horrible night, beginning with the dream that the killer had been in the room, watching him, and it had been followed by many others. He'd kept waking up from nightmare after nightmare, and he'd woken Don several times, also. He had the awful premonition that something horrible was about to happen; it had grown even stronger after Amita's visit; he'd even had the sensation that he was telling her good-bye. He wasn't sure where the feeling was coming from, but it lent another sense of urgency to the situation – he felt he had to tell them what he knew, just in case…

He was aware of Don's eyes, raking over him, and his brother spoke. "Charlie, are you sure you want to do this now?"

Charlie looked at him, and at Megan and Colby behind Don, who were looking at him sympathetically. "Yeah." He turned his gaze to Alan. "Dad, I don't know if you should be here."

Alan paled a bit at the comment, but straightened, looking obstinate. "I don't see why not."

"He's right, Dad," Don said heavily. "There's too much riding on this case – we need to go by the book. Dr. Raine will have to go, too – although we will break so you can check on him periodically, if you don't trust our judgment."

Dr. Raine looked at him levelly. "After what I've seen of you the past few days, agent, I trust your judgment implicitly." She looked at Alan. "Come on, Alan, let's get a coffee. I'll buy."

'_Since when did she start calling him Alan?_' Don wondered fleetingly, but he was too preoccupied with what was to come to give it more than a passing thought. Megan and Colby were pulling chairs up next to Charlie's bed and readying notepads, and Don perched on the arm of the recliner behind them, looking over their heads at Charlie. He'd sat through the interrogations of scores of victims; it was never easy, but it was unimaginably hard when the person being interrogated was your baby brother. He had the feeling his worst suspicions, his darkest nightmares, were about to be revealed, and it took all he had to sit there. Charlie looked up at him and met his eyes for a moment, and at Megan's gentle prompt, began to talk.

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Larry poked his head into Amita's office. She was there, head bent over her keyboard. He ruminated on that, on the odds of finding her here, even though that was what he'd come for. Those odds, though, were dependent on her schedule, and there was no way on the good Earth that he'd remember what her schedule was. So it was fortuitous to find her there, he thought, in the same space-time continuum that he was. That thought almost set him off into an internal discourse on states of matter and travel between alternate universes, but he yanked himself back to the present, and the matter at hand. He knocked, tentatively. "May I come in?"

She looked up as if surprised that anyone should be there, and then waved him into the room, distractedly. "Larry, yes."

"So, did you have a conversation with Charles this morning?" he asked, looking at her closely. She looked odd, not all there, as if she were going through the motions of working to keep her mind from something.

"Yes, we finally talked."

Larry beamed. "Wonderful! And how did it go?"

"Good," she said. "He admitted he has some things to work through, needs some time to heal."

"And…," prompted Larry, sensing there was more.

"He wants to be friends," she said brightly, then burst into tears.

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End Chapter 41


	42. Chapter 42

_A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Don's subconcious mind speaks to him - is he listening?_

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 42**

Charlie managed to get through the first few questions well enough, describing the killer's attack at the Craftsman, being injected and passing out. Even though Don knew much of what had happened because of being on the other end of the telephone and from what he'd gotten from the crime scene analysis, it still made his gut clench to think of Charlie, trying to fight off the intruder and passing out helplessly on the kitchen floor. He conjured up an image of Charlie staggering toward the kitchen door and falling as he pushed through it, and he was sure he'd never look at that door in the same way.

As Charlie progressed to the warehouse, and began to go into things they hadn't known, however, it got much worse. Charlie, too, was starting to look more distraught as he began to talk about Joanie Shire.

"How did you know it was Joanie Shire?" asked Megan, jotting down Charlie's last statement in her notebook.

Charlie was twisting a bit of sheet with the fingers of his good hand. "I recognized her from the picture the killer sent to the office."

"What kind of condition was she in?"

"She looked thin, she was bruised. She seemed - shell-shocked, like she had given up, like she had no fight left." Charlie's eyes strayed to the sheet, and his eyes looked unfocused. Don watched him intently. Was he retreating again, or was he simply concentrating?

"What happened next?"

In hushed tones, Charlie recounted the videotaping and the killer's brutal attack on Joanie that followed. He was shaking slightly now, his voice hoarse, as if the horror of it had clamped a cold hand around his vocal cords. As he finished describing what had likely been two hours of torture, he fell silent for a moment, and closed his eyes.

"Charlie, you don't have to do all of this at once," Don said quietly.

Charlie opened his eyes, but he didn't look up from the sheet. "I'll go as long as I can – I'll tell you if I need to stop," he promised. Don looked at him skeptically; he already looked past his limit, but he kept silent and let him continue.

Charlie went on. He glossed over the phone call between Don and the killer, but even the mention of it made Don sick to his stomach, as he recalled his own words. '_I don't even like him. We work together out of necessity…,_' He looked anxiously at Charlie, trying to read his expression, but failed. Charlie's face was unreadable; he had moved on to a description of his attempted escape, and Don's thoughts were derailed by that piece of the story.

"…got tangled in the chair, and we went down. He landed on top of me – I tried to fight back but he was too strong. I knew he had the advantage. I didn't know what he was going to do next and I didn't want to provoke him, so I -," he glanced up, a flush coming to his cheeks as he looked at Don, "I pretended to pass out."

"That was actually a smart move," said Colby, encouragingly, and Charlie shot him a grateful look. At least as grateful as it could be; all of his expressions were muted, as if he were trying hard to control them as he retold the story. He continued, describing seeing the lights of the police cars in the warehouse windows as the killer was packing his things, and Don swallowed hard, thinking how close they'd been to finding him at that point – the killer had been right there, and had slipped out from under them.

"…when I woke up, I was in a hotel room somewhere."

"It was near Albuquerque," said Don. His voice sounded strained, and Charlie looked at him.

He was silent for a moment; then went on. "He told me to get up, to take a shower. He had some kind of obsession with cleanliness – he kept telling me I was filthy, dirty, kept calling me a pig." Charlie flushed, and Megan exchanged a glance with Colby.

Charlie stared at the sheet covering his lap. "When I went in the bathroom and took off my shirt, I found out that he'd -," he struggled to get the words out, "he'd shaved my face and my chest while I was out. It – kind of – shocked me, I guess. I locked the door, even though he told me not to, and I showered as fast as I could. As soon as the water stopped, he tried to get in." Charlie paused for breath. He was breathing more heavily now, fear in his face as he relived the experience. "He had given me some clean boxers and I threw them on and unlocked the door, but I didn't open it. He came in – he was – enraged. He had a black baton he'd used to beat the other victims, and he started hitting…,"

Don could feel the start of it, a black ugly anger, seeping into his soul, its tendrils twining around the feeling of dread he'd had when this started, beginning to displace it. He sat silently while Charlie struggled with the account of his beating, the murder of Carlotta Dawes, the prostitute, and his second attempt at escape. Megan stopped him. "So you got a look at the outside of the place? Was there a sign?"

Charlie shook his head. "I was in the back of the hotel. The main building was several yards away – I could see the back of it – single story, light colored brick. We were in a separate cottage behind that building – there were maybe six of them – it was the last one. It must have been pretty empty because there were no other cars that I could see, although there might have been some parked around the front of the main building. I didn't get much of a chance to look – he caught up with me a few yards outside the door. It was out in the middle of nowhere – there was nothing around but desert."

Megan looked at Colby. "Got that?"

He was jotting notes on his pad. "Yeah. I'll get this to Martinez at the Albuquerque office. Maybe he can come up with the place based on this description."

Megan looked at Charlie. "Go on."

"He sedated me again – I remember him carrying me to the van. I may have woken up on the trip once, but the next place I really remember was the meatpacking plant." He fell silent, his eyes dark. They waited, and when he started talking again, his voice was quiet, and shaking. Don could see him struggle, and he had a sudden urge to call off the interrogation, to put his arms around him, and tell him it was all right, that he didn't have to remember. But it wasn't all right, and Charlie would remember, no matter what he said.

"When I woke up again, I was hanging by my hands from one of the hooks in the ceiling. It was dark outside – I wasn't sure where I was or how long I'd been out but I assumed it was the night of the same day. He was - still angry from earlier that morning. He kept asking me how I thought he should make me pay. He grabbed me by the hair; then pushed me against the wall…" His voice faltered for a moment, and he put a shaking hand over his face.

Colby's pencil faltered with it. He stared at Charlie, remembering his words to Liz in the bar, _'I'll tell you one thing; if I come face to face with the guy, I hope someone's around to stop me, or I'm gonna rip his head off…'_

Charlie's chest heaved as he fought for control, and he brought his hand down from his face, his eyes still closed. "He pulled off my boxers."

_'Oh, God, I can't listen to this,_' thought Don. He slid off the arm of the chair onto his feet, but they wouldn't move; it was as if they were glued to the floor. He heard Megan speak, her voice gentle.

"Did he touch you, Charlie?"

"Y- yes," Charlie whispered. He opened his eyes and tried to raise his voice, but it was still barely audible. "He pressed against me, started touching – mostly my chest, but also – other places. I thought he was going to – but then, he got angry instead – started calling me filthy, started hitting – as hard as he could. He hit until I passed out."

A silence descended in the room. Don saw Megan move out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to look at her; she was wiping away a tear. He couldn't move himself, couldn't think, except for the harsh dark anger running through his brain, hot and black and filled with hatred. '_I'm gonna kill that sonafabitch when I find him, I'm gonna kill him…_'

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Hours later, Don was back at Charlie's bedside. After Charlie's statement, he had been exhausted, and looked drained. Alan had returned to the room, and it appeared as though Charlie was drifting off to sleep, so Don really couldn't come up with much of an excuse to stay, especially with Wright needing him back at the office. So he'd gone back in, biting down on his simmering fury, putting it in another place. Years of practice had taught him how to channel his emotions, to submerge them, and he was good at it. Because of that, he was able to focus. The bank robbery suspect in custody had finally talked, and that case was popping again. They'd spent the day rounding up and interrogating the remainder of the perps, and when Don left at seven, David and Colby, who had done the bulk of the interrogations, had been still there, working late, completing reports.

Alan was still at the medical center when Don got there, and he told him Susan was thinking about discharging Charlie in a day or so, as soon as he had the strength to make it up and down the hall, and was eating more normally. It wouldn't be the end of his treatment; he was facing hours of psychological therapy, plus some physical therapy to help him regain his strength after the long period in bed. Alan had filled him in, and they'd spent two hours visiting with Charlie. It was now after nine, and his father had just left for home moments ago. His news was good – on the surface, it seemed as though things might slowly be getting back to normal, but Don knew after Charlie's statement that morning, that inside, for either of them, nothing would be normal for a while.

In spite of a long nap that day, Charlie still looked tired. Don eyed him. "So, how did your talk with Amita go, this morning?"

Charlie's gaze flickered toward him. "She was pretty upset – she apologized."

Don stared at him. "And?" _'Don't tell me you just caved in,' _he thought_. 'I hope you played a little hard-to-get.'_

Charlie looked down, playing absently with the edge of the sheet. "I told her I thought we need to step back, maybe see other people. I told her we could be friends."

Don's mouth dropped open. The statement sounded suspiciously like a good-bye, and suddenly, his anger toward Amita evaporated. He would never have thought Charlie would take it that far, and now that he had, Don was second-guessing his own opinion, his own anger at her. True, what she had done was wrong, but it was one slip-up, and Don had to admit, he had done worse while in relationships. Plus Amita had been there faithfully, throughout the ordeal – working the case, visiting Charlie daily at the medical center. True, she should have come in to see him, but she might have been afraid of upsetting him – and it wasn't exactly as if she'd had a welcoming committee, he thought wryly, remembering how coldly he'd treated her.

"Charlie – maybe – isn't that a little harsh?"

Charlie looked up at him, a trace of surprise on his face. "You were the one who said I shouldn't let her walk all over me – that I needed to have more backbone."

"I know, but – hell, Charlie, you shouldn't listen to me when it comes to stuff like that. It's probably why I haven't been able to hold onto anyone, myself." '_Although that is going to change_,' he told himself firmly, '_with Robin._'

Charlie sighed and looked away. "That wasn't why I said it, anyway. Before all this happened, I might have had the strength to deal with it – if we got back together and she ended up deciding that she wanted out. I just can't, right now." His voice sounded leaden, and Don frowned.

"Well, maybe that wasn't a bad idea," he admitted. "It's not like you told her to take a hike. As you feel better, maybe you can pick it up again. If she's still around at that point, you'll know she's serious." He paused for a minute. "And that backbone crap…" his voice trailed off, and when he spoke again, it was softer. "Charlie – what you went through – it took so much toughness to hang on, to survive that. You have more backbone than anyone I know."

He saw the first smile on Charlie's face he'd seen in days, but it was tiny, and negated by the tears glittering in his brother's eyes, the darkness that still resided in them. "I don't feel very tough," he whispered.

Don leaned over, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it. "Well, you are. And don't forget it."

Charlie didn't respond, just laid his head back, and closed his eyes.

Don studied him for a moment. Charlie looked exhausted, but there was one thing Don still wanted to discuss. "Charlie – that phone call – you didn't say too much about it today, but – you know I was lying when I said that stuff, right? I was trying to throw him off."

Charlie nodded, and his eyes cracked open again. "I know," he said softly. "I kind of figured that. And I heard you talking the other day."

Don stared at him blankly. "The other day?"

"After the ice cream. After Dad left, you sat and talked to me."

"You remembered the ice cream? You could hear me?"

Charlie's mouth quirked in a sad little smile. "Yeah, I remember a lot of it. I kept trying to block you out, because you, of all people, had the ability to pull me out of where I was. I know Dad was there for me too, but he's a _parent_ – I guess I felt subconsciously he would be there whether I did or didn't come out. You, though – you weren't satisfied with that – you challenged me, you pushed. I tried not to, but I could hear you, especially the last few days. And by the way, this was not your fault, and I love you, too."

Don's face relaxed, softened by a smile, and he watched as Charlie's eyes drifted shut again. Silence reigned for a few moments and he thought his brother had dropped off to sleep, but then, unexpectedly, Charlie spoke. "You should get home, get some rest. I know you didn't get much sleep last night. I'm pretty tired, and Dr. Raine ordered a sedative for them to give me if I need it. There's no sense you sitting here watching me sleep. I'll be okay."

Don's brow furrowed. He hadn't eaten yet; he was starving; and he though longingly of Alan's lasagna, sitting in his refrigerator. "That's okay, Buddy, I don't mind."

Charlie opened his eyes a crack, and smiled just a bit. "I know you don't. But really, you should go. It's getting late." He closed his eyes again. "I think I sleep better when there's no one in the room, anyway." It wasn't a lie, really - the guard snored.

Don scratched his head. "Okay, if you're sure." At Charlie's nod, he rose. "I'll see you in the morning, Buddy."

"'Kay."

Don let himself out, flicking off the light and softly shutting the door. He nodded at the guard seated in the chair, an LAPD cop named Sumner, who glanced up from his magazine and nodded back. Don strode down the hall, which was nearly empty that time of night; the patients were all in their rooms, visiting hours were ending. A nurse padded down the hall, and a tall man moved slowly down the hall in a janitor's uniform with a Mediclean logo on the front, pushing a cart. Don's gaze flicked over him idly, taking in the short light brown hair, the blue eyes, the mustache, then his eyes moved over the nurse, curvy, five-five, dark hair; his brain on auto-pilot, trained to take in people, surroundings, without consciously thinking about it.

His conversation with Charlie was on his mind, but for some reason, a memory of Charlie's awards dinner a few weeks ago imposed on his thoughts. Charlie had looked so confident that night, smiling and speaking from the podium. As he walked out into the parking lot, Don wondered where that thought had come from, why he would suddenly remember that night. Charlie was right, he was tired. He climbed into his SUV, and pulled out of the lot.

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End Chapter 42


	43. Chapter 43

_A/N: I apologize for the delay; I've started a new job, my entire family is coming to visit, and real life has me by the throat. The chapters may come every other day for a time, while I try to keep up. _

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 43**

It took all of Ryan's self-control to keep moving down the hallway as Don Eppes passed him. Eppes had only seen him once, and Ryan had been dressed in his waiter's tuxedo and was without a mustache, but still, it was a tense moment. Eppes' eyes had rested on him briefly, but the agent had kept going, and Ryan had to stifle a smile. No clue. The agent had no idea.

He pushed his cart into the room - crash cart he'd borrowed from the surgical area. He'd covered it with a cloth, but underneath, everything was set up with items he'd lifted. There was a ventilator, scalpels and clamps, sponges – it was exciting to have all of that surgical equipment at his disposal. He had one scalpel and the syringes in his pockets, but the rest he would leave here in the unoccupied room two doors down from the professor's room, until he was ready for it. He needed to wait an hour or so until the nurse made her last rounds for the evening. By then, without Don Eppes here, the guard would be napping, and Ryan could begin.

He stepped outside the room and smiled again as he thought of the bland, preoccupied look on the agent's face. He could imagine it being replaced by a look of horror, of helpless rage, when the agent found he had lost after all. Prior to coming in to work that evening, Ryan had dropped off a Courier Express envelope and paid for delivery, with a written instruction to hold it until he called. In it was a note for Eppes that contained two lines –'_Dead bird. You lose, Eppes._' He wanted it to be waiting for the agent at the office in the morning, but he hadn't had Courier Express send it yet until he knew it was going down that night for sure, until he knew Don Eppes wasn't spending another night at the hospital. That question had just been answered. The agent was leaving; it would finally happen tonight.

He stepped into an empty waiting area, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the Courier Express drop point. "Yeah, the envelope for Don Eppes that was dropped off earlier – yeah, that's the one. You can go ahead and send that – I want a morning delivery, and I want it there by 7:00 a.m. Yeah, thanks."

He snapped the phone shut. He could feel the excitement building. He felt hot – he was a god, he was on fire. No one could stop him – he was too smart. He would get what he wanted, as always. And the reward for his cunning, his greatness, was Dr. Eppes. He turned, smiling, and walked down the hall to get his cleaning cart.

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Charlie opened his eyes, and stared into the darkness. He'd felt tired when Don left, and so he hadn't called the nurse for his sedative, but he was having a hard time dropping off. He'd thought it would be cathartic to unload, to get all of the horror out of his head and into the open. Instead, though, it had seemed to deflate him. The sense of dread he'd felt since morning had intensified, but he was too drained to deal with any more. He knew each day would be more of the same, the waking, the gut-twisting sensation of remembering again, the struggle to act normally when all the ugliness was there, constantly lurking in the back of his mind. Talking had resolved nothing, had alleviated none of the terror, the humiliation, the sense that something evil had taken up residence in his mind, and refused to leave.

To add to that was the finality of his talk with Amita. He didn't even have her to live for anymore; it was only a matter of time before she left his weak body and shattered mind for someone whole, no matter how good her intentions were. He would be a burden, _had been_ a burden to his father, and to Don also. The truth was; he wasn't sure he was up to it all. After all the efforts of others to save him, he wasn't sure if he even wanted life. For some strange reason, he felt as though doom was impending; and stranger yet, he almost didn't care. _Let it come, _his subconscious whispered._ Like an injection of sedative, only permanent. No more pain, no more suffering. Just give in…_

He closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate, to find the numbers. It was getting harder to do; he eventually seemed to reach some kind of limit after periods of intense concentration. It had happened after his mother's death too – then, as now, he'd wanted nothing more than to continue to hide inside his head, but he'd reached a point where it was no longer possible, as if he was spent, his mental energy consumed. If he'd taken the time to think about it, he would have recognized that after each episode came a very black period, a sense of despair so deep that simply living seemed like an effort, and this time was no exception. But for now, he reached for and managed to snag a simple problem concerning non-Newtonian flow, and actually slipped inside it for a while, before he dropped off to sleep.

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Don sighed, leaned forward on the sofa, and set the empty plate on the coffee table. There was nothing like Dad's lasagna. He rubbed his eyes and flicked off the TV, glancing at the clock. Eleven-fifteen. Better get to bed.

Instead, he sat for a moment, thinking back over the day. The details of the bank robbery case swirled through his mind, but were cast about like dry leaves by the memory of Charlie's statement. God, what his brother had gone through. It brought anger back into the forefront of his brain, sharp and hot. There was no doubt in his mind that if he came face to face with the man, he would kill him. Career or not, justified or not, he would kill him.

'_Who in the hell are you?_' he wondered. Who was this monster? Charlie had agreed to spend some time with an artist the next day to render a sketch of the man's face, something that was sure to be time consuming, and draining for Charlie. Without that, however, they had just a generic description to go on. Good-looking, short brown hair, blue eyes – it could be anyone. Hell, it could be the janitor he'd passed in the hallway that evening.

"Shit." He was on his feet, his gut clenching with sudden trepidation. What if… 'No_, you're being ridiculous_,' he told himself. He couldn't shake down every man of that description he passed on the street. The guy was just a janitor – in fact, he was sure it was the same man who had stopped in the room the night before to pick up the trash…the same man who had Charlie dreaming that the killer had been in the room with him. What if it wasn't a dream – what if Charlie had really seen the man, in a brief half-conscious moment? Of course, even if that had happened Charlie could have just been reacting to the resemblance. Just because the janitor looked something like the killer didn't mean it actually was him. But what if it was…

"Goddamn it." He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. '_This is stupid_,' he told himself. '_Your apartment is forty minutes from there - you're going to go all the way back there for nothing_.' He couldn't deny it, however; there was something about the man that had bothered him, subconsciously, when he passed him in the hallway. Something – but what? He tried to concentrate, gave up with a sigh. He might as well go back down there, he thought. Sure, this would turn out to be nothing and he'd feel stupid, but the alternative was sitting here stewing all night. Hell, he'd sleep better in the recliner in Charlie's hospital room. He put his gun and holster back on, grabbed his keys, and headed out.

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Colby groaned, and leaned back in his chair. Eleven-thirty. David was long gone; he'd blasted through his reports. Granted, he'd gotten some of his other work out of the way while Colby was at the hospital, but David would have finished first anyway. Paperwork was definitely not Colby's strong suit. Oh, he turned out decent reports, but he had to work at it. So here he was, still plugging away in the office when he should be home with his feet up, drinking a beer. It hadn't helped that Liz had teased him about it on her way out. Well, he was done for the night – he'd had enough.

His cell phone rang, and he flipped it open, wondering who would be calling at that hour, then recognized the number. "Hey, Don, what's up?"

"Hey, Colby." Don sounded a little abashed. "Sorry to call you so late."

"It doesn't matter," Colby said. "I'm still at the office, doing reports." Might as well let the boss man know he was putting in extra hours, he thought to himself.

"Okay, I won't keep you. Do me a favor, though, and make a note for the morning. As soon as their office is open, I want you to call an outfit called Mediclean and find out who they have working at the Greene Medical Center."

Colby sat up in his chair. "Why?"

"I dunno, it's probably nothing. I just want to do a background check."

"Why – you got something?"

Don hesitated as he maneuvered his SUV around a slower-moving vehicle. God, this was embarrassing. He was going to sound paranoid. "I passed this guy in the hall tonight – one of the Mediclean employees. He fits Charlie's description of the killer, that's all. I just want to check him out."

"Shit."

If anything, Don had expected teasing, and Colby's response sent his gut in a spin. "What?"

"Well, this report came over my desk today. LAPD's handling it, but we got a copy. There was a Mediclean employee; a William Carter, murdered a few days ago, three days ago, I think it said. He wasn't cut, he was shot, and it didn't say what facility he worked at, but still…"

Don felt cold fear grip his heart. It could still be coincidence, he told himself, but he didn't like coincidences. Never had. "Okay, look, I'm on my way back there, just to be safe. Charlie's got the guard on his room, and there's a nurse's station just down the hall that's manned all night, but I think I'm gonna camp out there tonight, too, until we get a chance to check this out with Mediclean."

"Okay. Let me know if you want some help."

"Yeah, okay." Don snapped the phone shut and looked at the clock in the dashboard. Eleven thirty-five. He'd be there in roughly a half hour.

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Ryan Morgan paused in the hallway, watching. The nurse was making her rounds; she was the only one to be seen in the hallway; the guard must have already gone in for his nap. His eyebrows rose slightly in surprise as she passed Eppes' room. She was skipping it, for some reason – he was sure she'd gone in last night on her last run. Everything was ready, then. Still, he waited until she was done with her other patients in that corridor, until she'd retreated down the hall and around the corner. Now. It was time.

He pushed his cleaning cart down nearly to the room, and with one last look around, stepped up to the door. He had a hand on the syringe in his right pocket. Right pocket was for the guard, left for Eppes. He eased the door open, and the faint light coming through it illuminated the guard in profile, his mouth open, snoring softly. Quick as a cat, Ryan was in with the door shut behind him. He could see just enough to figure out where the man was, and sent a fist into his gut as he plunged the syringe into his shoulder. The punch effectively stole the man's air supply; it came out with a whoosh, and as he started to rise up, Ryan pushed his entire body against him, his forearm on the man's windpipe, choking off any chance at drawing in more air. In seconds, the man was out; Ryan had given him a double dose of sedative. Apart from some muffled scuffling, the whole thing had been eerily quiet.

Without pausing, he turned toward the bed. A sound came from it, a low murmur, and he froze until he realized Eppes must have made the sound in his sleep. He moved over to the bed, with small quiet, sliding steps. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he positioned himself; then struck. One hand on the professor's mouth, one hand delivering the injection. He could see the eyes fly open, the grunt of pain and surprise, felt the thrill of the struggle. This time it took a bit longer, but in seconds, Eppes was still.

Now he had to move fast. He'd injected the professor with suxamethonium chloride, known by medical professionals as 'sux,' the paralytic agent he'd used on the drunk outside Denver. The professor was conscious, but his muscles had lost their ability to obey him. The reflexive muscles used for breathing were the last to stop functioning, but if Ryan didn't intubate him quickly, the professor could die of suffocation, which would make the cut pointless. Ryan wanted him to experience it.

He was panting with exertion and excitement now, and he forced himself to calm down before he opened the door. There was no one in the corridor, and he stepped out and pushed his cart down two rooms, to where he'd stored his surgical equipment. He pulled out the crash cart, and pushed his cleaning cart into the empty room, then wheeled the crash cart into Eppes' room, with a quick last look down the hallway. Inside, he pulled two towels off the cart and laid them at the bottom of the doorway to block light, before he flicked on the light switch. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. He had all the time in the world.

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End Chapter 43


	44. Chapter 44

_A/N: Crazy weekend - out of town family inundating the house - send help..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 44**

Don's mind was playing tricks on him, racing almost as fast as his engine as he tore down the highway. He couldn't eradicate the feeling that something was wrong. His cell phone beeped, and he flipped it open.

"Don."

"Yeah, Colby, what is it?"

"I'm on my way there, too. Something just doesn't feel right."

So, someone else felt the way he did. Don didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. "I'm about fifteen minutes out."

"Yeah, I'm probably about twenty. Did you try calling his room?"

"Yeah, I thought about it. If this is nothing, though, I don't want to rattle him, or wake him up. I just left there at around ten or so, and the guard was there."

"So about the guy – what made you suspicious of him?"

"I don't know – nothing really. He looked kind of familiar, but I can't think of from where – and it wouldn't make sense anyway. I've never seen the killer, other than at the meatpacking plant, and it was completely dark – I never got a look at him."

"You don't know you've never seen him – he trailed you for three weeks without you knowing it, right? Maybe you saw him, but didn't realize who you were looking at. What were you thinking of after you saw him?"

Don's voice was tinged with impatience. "I don't know – I was tired. I walked past him, past a nurse – I can't remember."

"Okay, look, I'm hitting traffic – I'm gonna sign off. I'll see you there."

Don flipped the cell phone shut and glanced at his watch – only about ten minutes away. He frowned. What _had_ he been thinking of after he saw the guy? Two stoplights passed before he mentally snapped his fingers. Charlie's awards dinner. His brow furrowed, as a conversation with Megan drifted into his mind. '_He must have seen you together somewhere – saw you interact…' _

His mind was in high gear again. That might have been it, he thought. The awards dinner – however, he hadn't really talked to Charlie much there; he was with Robin most of the night. But he _had_ talked _about_ him… _'Oh, God_,' he thought suddenly. Someone must have been listening. He forced his mind back into the scene; he'd been standing there with Robin, drinking wine…

And then it came to him – the waiter. He had offered the tray first to Robin – Don could see the man in his mind. _"__Would you like some wine?"_ The guy had been right there in front of them; had heard him talking – it was the same man, and he was at the hospital…

"God," he whispered, and fumbled for his phone again. "Colby!"

"Yeah, Don."

"I just remembered where I saw the guy – at Charlie's awards dinner – he was a waiter – he waited on Robin – gave her wine." His words came out in urgent staccato bursts.

"Whoa, slow down, man, are you telling me this is the same guy?"

"Yeah. Listen, Colby – call LAPD, have them ring up the guard – it's Sumner. Give them my number and have them tell him to call me. I'm gonna try the room."

He didn't wait for an affirmative; he snapped the phone shut and dialed the phone in Charlie's room. "Charlie, I'm sorry if I'm waking you," he whispered, as it rang. "But please, pick up."

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The guard was lying in the chair with his mouth open, looking as though he were still asleep, and Eppes was motionless, eyes already closed. Ryan wheeled the cart next to the bed, plugged in the ventilator and began to intubate. Even though he was working quickly, the task took him ten minutes to accomplish; it had been awhile since he'd done a tubing. The sux helped; in fact, it was often used to relax the throat muscles to help intubate more easily. The short delay was okay though, he could still feel Eppes' chest moving lightly, and he helped him out with a few chest compressions. Once he was in and the ventilator took over the breathing function, he grabbed tape, and taped the professor's eyes open – just halfway, enough to see, but not open too much – they would dry out too quickly. As he worked, he assessed the professor's ability to move. One of the drawbacks of sux was that its duration of effectiveness was unpredictable, and could be short. He had given Eppes a hefty dose, but he would have to watch for signs of movement, and re-inject if necessary.

He leaned over the prone figure in front of him, and patted the professor's face. "Hello, Charlie," he whispered with a smile. "Miss me?"

He stripped off his work gloves and worked his hands into surgical gloves, and picked up a scalpel. First things first. He stepped over to the officer, and tilted the head sideways, chin down slightly, to expose the jugular and made a simple, neat cut. Blood sprayed out, then, as the pressure began to drop, gushed rhythmically. Ryan stepped back and left him to bleed. The guard probably hadn't gotten a good look at him, but he might have recognized him from the night before. There was no sense removing one witness who knew what he looked like and creating another. The guard had to die.

He moved back the bed, set aside the bloody scalpel, pulled down the sheets, and untied Charlie's gown, then pulled it off him. He sighed, and traced a hand down Charlie's chest, stifling a moan. This was so good, it was perfect. He smiled again, and peered into the dark eyes. "Very well, Charlie, shall we begin?" he asked softly.

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Charlie had felt the movement in the darkness right before the hand came over his mouth. He felt a pinch at the same time, and his heart leapt so hard he thought it was going to come out of his chest. It was dark – he must be dreaming again, he thought wildly, but he felt the pressure on his mouth, a body leaning on him as he struggled. He understood then it was real, and he had been injected again, but it was different this time. He wasn't losing consciousness, but he felt heavy; he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The pressure lifted as the hands came off him, his eyes drifted shut, and it was quiet for a moment, then he heard the faint swoosh of rubber wheels, and the lights came on – he could see it even through his closed eyelids. Needed air...

Then hands were tilting his head; something was going down his throat; he wanted to choke, but couldn't. Hard to breathe… There was a click of a piston and a hiss, and then he could feel air moving in and out of his chest. His head cleared a little, but his heart was pounding, painfully, heavily. He felt fingertips on his eyelids, and then they were open again – halfway, but enough. Enough to see that it was the killer, even though Charlie already knew that.

The killer stepped out of his range of vision for a moment, and then returned, holding a bloody scalpel. Through the haze of terror, Charlie wondered dimly whose blood it was. The guard's maybe? Maybe his – although he didn't feel numb – he simply couldn't move. If he could feel, he'd know it if the man had already cut him, wouldn't he?

The hands were untying the gown around his neck, twisting it, releasing the other ties until it came off. He wanted to shudder, he wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to scream, but he could do none of them.

"Very well, Charlie, shall we begin?" the killer asked him, and he picked up a scalpel. It glinted in the light, and Charlie watched as it came down toward his chest. He tried to focus on the numbers, the vision of the night sky, tried to go back, but the first time he'd been cut he had been focusing for days, he'd almost been there already. He was too far off this time, not close enough, he couldn't concentrate – white-hot pain seared his chest, and he gasped reflexively, his breathing muscles responding weakly in spite of the paralytic. The gasp reflex fought against the breathing apparatus, and for a moment, he felt as though he was drowning. The pain moved down his torso, like fire, and the killer moaned with pleasure.

Charlie knew then, that this was what he'd been dreading since morning. He'd known since last night, in truth, when he'd felt the killer's presence in his room. He was going to die, and really, what did it matter? He'd told himself earlier life held nothing for him any longer but pain. Soon it would be over, he would end it in a blaze of agony, but then there would be nothing, no more fear. Peace. Blackness. Nothing…

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"Greene Medical Center." The voice on the other end of the line sounded old, tired, and decidedly cranky.

Don spoke desperately into the phone, as he pulled sharply around a corner. "I'm trying to reach my brother's room – Charles Eppes."

"I'm sorry sir, after eleven-thirty all calls on that floor route through the switchboard. I can get you the nurses' station, and she can deliver a message, if it's an emergency."

"Yes, please, put me through," Don replied, trying not to bark the order.

The phone was ringing as he pulled into the parking lot, remembering at the last minute to swing around – only the main doors were open this time of night. Still ringing - no one was picking up. The nurse could just be on her rounds, he told himself, his heart hammering as he threw the SUV into park, and sprinted toward the doors. He gave up on the call, flipped the phone shut, and picked up speed, failing to notice that Colby was pulling into the lot behind him as he pushed through the main doors.

There was a security guard in the lobby, who appeared to be about seventy, and Don took one look and decided against trying to pull him in – it would just slow him down. Instead, he flashed his badge at the startled man and flew past, running all out down the hallway, his lungs and legs beginning to burn.

He reached the nurses' station, and a nurse looked at him, startled, and began to come around the desk. "What is it?"

The relative calm of the hallways slowed him to a fast walk, but he kept going, toward Charlie's room. He opened his mouth to reply as he rounded the corner, and bit it off as spied the empty chair in the hallway. "Where's the guard?"

She was trotting alongside him. "He usually goes in the room and camps out in the recliner when it gets quiet," she said. "What's going on?"

"Maybe nothing," Don said, "but stay back for a minute."

She stopped where she was, staring, and he advanced down the hall, still breathing heavily, sweat trickling down his neck. His hand found his Glock, but he left it in the holster as he gently opened the door.

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Charlie was swimming in agony. The killer had run two incisions perpendicular to the center one, about an inch apart and several inches long, from the centerline out to his right side, and had begun to peel up the resulting strip, pulling skin away from the tissue underneath. Nerve endings screamed and sent explosions of pain through his body; if he'd been able to cry out he would – there would be no holding back with anguish of this magnitude. His eyes were getting dry and his vision blurry, then suddenly there was liquid in his face, stinging his eyes – the killer had squirted something into them from a small bottle – saline. As the excess ran away his vision cleared, and he could see the killer's face, transfigured by an unholy glee. His head was whirling with the pain; he could only pray that he would pass out, or die of shock before this was over.

Then suddenly, there was a shout, a roar that sounded almost inhuman, and the killer whirled. Charlie could hear Don's voice, yelling at the killer to drop the scalpel, even as Don charged into Charlie's field of vision. Don lunged awkwardly, sliding into the killer like a bull intent on goring; they crashed against the bed and went down, below Charlie's view, and Charlie heard a scream. His heart lurched – he seen the killer raise the scalpel toward Don just before impact, and a wave of panic swept through him, replacing the feeling of dread, of defeat. Suddenly, he no longer wanted death. How could he, when Don was here, fighting like a maniac for him, risking his own life? At the same time, he felt a terror, deeper than any he'd felt so far – he could hear the scuffle on the floor – the killer was trying to murder his brother, and Charlie was helpless to stop it. He lay there, desperately praying for life, his and Don's, as a roaring began in his ears.

Above the roar, he could hear grunts, and then blows, horrible-sounding smacks, the sound of a fist against a head, before the darkness descended, and the roaring finally stopped.

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End Chapter 44


	45. Chapter 45

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Yes, the company's gone, and I'm trying to catch up now._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 45**

The door felt heavier than normal when Don pushed against it, and he could see something on the floor, blocking it – a towel, it appeared, although that didn't have time to register. As the door swung further, a blast of shock hit him, icy hot, as he took in the blood and the figure standing over his brother. He charged into the room, stumbling over the towels but keeping his balance, slipping on the blood – there was blood everywhere – so much blood. Someone was screaming, an inhuman yell of rage, fear, and hate, and as his body hit the killer's, he realized it was him.

There was the flash of a knife - a scalpel, at impact. Don couldn't avoid it, he was coming too fast, but he knocked the man's hand aside and down. It wasn't quite enough; he felt a searing pain in his ribcage, and then they were going down, the killer twisting and screaming as his face hit the frame of the bed, scraping over a metal corner. The scalpel clattered to the ground and the man went for it, but Don got his hand on it and slid it away, then he grabbed the man and turned him, hitting him in his bleeding face again and again, his fist cracking bone, the nose spurting blood, a tooth flying. The killer was strong, and fought back, his fists connecting more than once, but Don was oblivious to the pain, completely consumed by hatred that filled his mind like a red fog. He could hear his own voice, a maniacal growl, saying the right words, telling the man he was under arrest, reciting his Miranda rights, although his brain told him to kill, his fist pounding relentlessly, his hands finding the killer's throat.

Then Colby was there too, screaming at him. "Don, stop! Back off, man!" His strong hands pulled at Don's, the red mist in Don's head finally started to recede, and he sat back with a thump on his backside, gasping for air, staring at the dazed bloody face in front of him. Colby was in front of him now, checking the killer's pulse, then turning the man unceremoniously and cuffing him, yelling at a nurse to get help. He pushed the killer roughly aside; the man moaned and began to stir, and Colby was bending over Don, his hands running over him. "You okay, man? You're cut."

Don nodded blankly at first question, ignoring the second. His head was beginning to clear; he could feel pain in his side, and his fist and jaw were throbbing. His eye felt odd, and he touched it absently; it was already starting to swell shut. Suddenly his heart lurched painfully. "Charlie?"

He began to scramble to his feet; pushing away Colby's restraining hand. Other people were coming into the room now; as he rose, he caught a glimpse of the security guard's face, gray with shock, his expression mirrored by the medical personnel. Don turned to Charlie, and his knees wobbled. Charlie's torso was covered in blood, a long incision running from his chest to his navel, and an inch or two above the navel a one-inch wide strip of skin was peeled back from the center of his body toward his right side. The loose skin looked like a bloody banana peel, and Don felt nausea rising. There was a tube in Charlie's mouth that was taped to the side of his face; and although his chest was rising and falling steadily, Don realized the breathing was mechanical, provided by a ventilator. As he took in the stillness, the dark eyes staring sightless under the taped eyelids, he had a sudden fear that his brother was gone.

He felt hands firmly grab him and shift him sideways, and medical personnel moved to take his place by Charlie's side, their faces grim, their movements quick and purposeful.

"This one's gone," said a woman, as if reading his thoughts, and Don's head jerked toward her. She was standing by the guard, Sumner, checking his pulse; he was slumped in the chair with his mouth open, drenched in blood, which had dripped from his body and pooled on the floor. Sumner, she was talking about Sumner. Not Charlie. Noise was escalating in the room – terse comments from the techs jumbled together in Don's ears, and above them, the killer was beginning to scream, "He tried to kill me! He was trying to kill me!"

Don turned to see the killer pointing at him, a deep bloody gash across his left cheek from where he'd scraped the bed, his nose already swollen and misshapen, one eye swelling shut. The side of the killer's face under the gash drooped a little, and shone red with blood. Colby had pulled the man's wallet out of his pocket to check his ID, and growled. "Shut up!"

He held the ID out to Don. "Denver license. Ryan Morgan, if it's legit. They're gonna take him down the hall and treat him – I'm going with him. LAPD are on their way – I can call Wright, too."

He looked at Don as if assessing him, outwardly collected, but Don could see the pent up anger inside him; Colby too, was barely containing himself. He shook himself mentally – if Colby could keep a grip on himself, then he should be able, also. "No, I'll do it." The words sounded as though they were coming from someone else.

The doctor examining Charlie spoke behind him, tension in his voice, and Don turned back toward his brother. "I've got a pulse but it's slow – we need to get him down to surgery, now. He's out cold, and not breathing on his own – maybe sedated, I'm not sure." That registered, along with unbounded relief, and the re-awakening of anger.

Two medics were helping Morgan into a wheelchair, awkwardly because of the cuffs, and Don crossed the distance between them in one stride, lowering his face to Morgan's bloody visage. "What'd you give him?"

"Nothing," Morgan exclaimed. "I just walked in and found them – I'm just a janitor!"

"You're lying!" Don growled, his face contorted with anger, and Colby pulled him away.

"Don," he said warningly.

Don tore his eyes away from Morgan. "I gave him his Miranda rights, but do it again in front of a witness before you ask him anything.

"We gotta get the patient out of here," said a medic standing near Charlie's bed, loudly, and Colby gave the orderly behind Morgan's wheelchair a nod, and they began to move to clear a path, Colby leading the way.

Colby turned to Morgan as they got out in the hall, jabbing a finger at his chest. "You so much as move in that chair, asshole, and I'll take you out myself!"

They were moving Charlie, now, and Don stepped aside helplessly as they maneuvered his hospital bed toward the door. Another person, a doctor or an intern, laid a hand on Don's arm as he went to follow. "We need to take a look at you, sir – you're cut, and that eye is swelling. We'll get another wheelchair."

He glanced down for the first time, and saw his shirt, a gash in the fabric, a large bloodstain blooming on the left side. "It's okay, I can walk," he said impatiently. "It's just a cut – you can stitch me up down there."

He strode out behind Charlie's gurney, his eyes locked on his brother's face, as he pulled out his cell phone, dialed, and put it to his ear. "Megan – it's Don. Yeah – look, all hell just broke out here at the hospital. The killer tried to get Charlie – I don't know yet – he's cut up, they're taking him to surgery. We got the guy – name's Ryan Morgan. Call Wright, and get David and Liz and get down here. Yeah – thanks."

He flipped the phone shut and flung some passing instructions at an LAPD officer who had just arrived in the hall. "Make sure no one goes in that room other than crime scene techs. You might want to call Walker – Sumner's dead." Now that Charlie's gurney was out in the hall, the orderlies pushing it were picking up speed, and Don had to trot to keep up. The adrenaline was starting to recede now, and was being replaced by cold fear, gripping his gut in an icy fist. He followed them all the way down the wing to the center of the hospital, where the surgical bays were. They pushed Charlie inside and one of the medics held a hand up, signaling Don to stay outside as the door swung shut. He stared at the doors for a moment, as if in a trance, then slowly raised the phone and dialed his father.

The conversation was terse and brief; his father hung up quickly, in a hurry to get there, and as Don shut his phone, he felt nausea grip him again. The intern was behind him, still trying to get him to come into a room to be stitched, but Don ignored him, whirling around, dashing across the hall. He barely made it to a trashcan before he lost the contents of his stomach.

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Charlie regained consciousness in the surgical bay. He was still immobile and couldn't open his eyes, but he could sense light through his lids, could hear the voices of the medical personnel working on him, and he could feel – feel the hands stitching him up, feel the unbelievable pain. At first, he was completely disoriented, but as it began to sink in that there were multiple voices in the room, he realized he'd been rescued; the killer must be gone. At the moment, however, he almost didn't care. The pain blocked out most coherent thought, and the inability to move or even breathe on his own generated a panicked sense of claustrophobia that effectively sucked the rest of the rational thought right out of his brain.

"His heart rate is escalating."

"Is he coming to?"

"No voluntary respirations yet."

There was the sound of the door opening; the thud as someone's hand contacted it, then an urgent voice. "They found a couple of empty vials on the cart. One was labeled Anectine."

"Anec – shit, that's sux! No wonder he had him on the ventilator! This guy's awake!"

A female voice. "Oh my God!"

The other voice spoke loudly, as if Charlie was hard of hearing. "Listen, Dr. Eppes? If you can hear me, we're going to numb you up. We can't give you sedatives or heavy painkillers right now because we don't what else he might have given you; I'm sorry, but we can give you a local. The drug he gave you is going to wear off soon, you'll be able to move again, breathe on your own, okay? When that happens, we can give you something stronger. Just relax." Then a muttered, "Jesus." Charlie could feel needle pricks, moving about his torso, and as the numbing agent began to take effect, the fire along the cuts began to recede to a dull ache.

"What about Butyrylcholine?"

"Good idea. Go see if you can scare some up. Maybe we can reverse this."

"Heart rate's down a little."

"Good. Let's get another unit hung. Hang in there, Dr. Eppes."

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"My God, Donnie!"

Alan strode into the room, consternation on his face as he saw the bandage on Don's side, his swelling eye, the bruise on his jaw. "You didn't tell me you were hurt, too! When you told me to bring you a shirt – I didn't realize-,"

Don slid off the table from a sitting position and took the clean shirt his father was holding out. "Thanks – and it's nothing – just needed a few stitches." Eighteen, to be exact.

His face was closed, tight, his eyes dark, and Alan looked at him anxiously. "They told me Charlie's still in there. What happened?"

Don glanced at the nurse, who was listening as she cleaned up gauze and bandage wrappers and readied the room. She shot him a sheepish glance, and headed out to the hallway. He looked back at Alan. "I left at around ten, and as I went out, I noticed this guy – he was wearing a Mediclean uniform. Something about him bugged me, but I couldn't place it. After I got home, it occurred to me he matched Charlie's description. I didn't have anything concrete, but I decided to come back – I just had this hinky feeling. On the way back, I realized why the guy bugged me – I saw him at Charlie's awards banquet – he was a waiter there."

Alan paled. "Oh my God – the man's been here all along?"

Don shook his head. "I don't think so – a Mediclean employee who worked here was killed a few days ago – we think the killer did it so he could take his place."

"But you got him – he's locked up now?"

"They took him over to Cedars-Sinai to be treated. They have a plastic surgeon on call there – I guess this place is affiliated with them. When I tackled the guy, he went down, cut his face. They're gonna fix him up and then put him in custody. Colby and David are with him."

"How did he get past the guard?"

Don's face twisted. "Apparently the guard was going into Charlie's room the last few nights and sleeping in the recliner. The killer came in and slit the guard's throat – he's dead."

Alan stared at him, horror-stricken. "Charlie – he was – what happened? You said he needed stitches."

Don looked away, his eyes black and unreadable. "He tried to cut him again – he started -," He stopped, swallowed, continued. "He'd made a cut down the center of his body, and he'd started to pull up a strip of skin on his side."

"Oh my God," Alan repeated faintly, and looked about unsteadily for a chair. He sat heavily and looked up at Don. "How – how bad -," he broke off.

Don shook his head. "I don't know. He wasn't breathing on his own – the guy had put in a breathing tube – I don't know why. I've been waiting for an update."

"I've got one." Susan Raine's voice came from the doorway. She was sans makeup, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, wearing a jogging suit and sneakers. In spite of the lateness of the hour and her attire, she still exuded class. "They just put him in recovery. He's going to be okay – they got him stitched up and are giving him a transfusion, and they just pulled the ventilator; he's breathing on his own again. They think his assailant gave him a paralytic."

"Paralytic?"

She nodded; her face grim. "It renders victims immobile, but conscious. It can affect their ability to breathe – that's why he tubed him. He had Charlie's eyes taped open. He wanted him to experience what was happening to him."

Alan's breath left him in a soft whoosh, and he just sat for a moment, completely shocked by the horror of it. He looked at both of them with despair. "He'd come so far. This will crush him - he'll have to start all over again -,"

"Not necessarily," she said. "He's awake now, and talking. In fact he's asking for you – I told him I'd bring you in."

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Medical personnel were standing by Charlie's gurney in the recovery room. A nurse was adding something to his IV, and a doctor was saying, "We're going to give you a painkiller – not as strong as we'd like, but we want to make sure the other drug is completely out of your system before we give you something stronger – just another hour or two, and your local should last that long. Let me see you raise your arm again."

Charlie complied, lifting his arm at the elbow, but the movement was slow and the arm took a meandering course up – it looked as though he was trying to conduct an orchestra. He let it go, and it flopped lifelessly onto the gurney. His face was pinched with pain, and was chalk-white, but his eyes widened as he saw Don and Alan. His gaze followed Don as he approached the gurney. "You're 'kay?" The words were slurred, a rough half-whisper, but Don was relieved beyond words to hear them. Charlie was still with them, physically and mentally.

"Yeah, Buddy, I'm fine," Don said softly. "I'm fine, and they've got him. He's gonna be locked up where he can't get at anyone anymore." His gentle expression and words belied the turmoil inside him – the fear for Charlie, the rage at the killer.

Alan had stepped forward and grasped Charlie's hand, and the doctor pulled Don aside, and spoke softly. "We're going to keep him here for an hour to watch him. The drug he was given can exhibit side effects in some people, although if that was going to happen, we probably would have seen it by now. He seems to be regaining his motor functions; those will improve when the drug wears off. What I'm more concerned about at this point is shock – he wasn't strong to begin with, he lost some blood, and he was in considerable pain for a period of time. They're getting another room ready for him – he should be able to go there in an hour, when we're sure he's stable. The actual injuries are not life threatening – they were deep skin incisions for the most part, but they will be sore for a few days. We just need to watch for infection – I don't know if the guy used any disinfectant before he cut. We're putting him on an antibiotic."

He looked over at Charlie, and shook his head ruefully, then back at Don. "We didn't realize he was awake while we were stitching him up – I'm sorry. That had to be a pretty traumatic experience, on top of what he went through. I heard you caught the guy at least, that's great."

"Yeah," said Don quietly, his eyes on Charlie. "It's great."

The doctor looked at him curiously, trying to figure out whether the reply was serious or sardonic. The look in the agent's eyes made him suddenly uncomfortable, so he just nodded, and moved away. He had a feeling that the other man, the killer, was lucky to be alive.

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End Chapter 45


	46. Chapter 46

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 46**

Ryan Morgan lay on the gurney at Cedars-Sinai, and waited for the plastic surgeon to come in and give him an assessment of his facial injury. His mind was whirling crazily, trying to figure out if the feds had him, or not. He'd done everything he could after they'd caught him to deflect suspicion, which admittedly, wasn't much; there wasn't a lot a person could do when they were surrounded by agents and cops, handcuffed, and in a wheelchair. First, of course, had been the denial. His story would be that he was an innocent janitor, who had just walked in on the scene. He would not, of course, deny his medical training in Denver – they'd find that out anyway; he would claim that he instinctively removed his work gloves, and checked the victims' pulses. That, in fact, was what he was doing when Agent Eppes charged him. The story flashed into his brain almost immediately; and he'd done what he could to make it work.

Most importantly, he'd gotten rid of the surgical gloves. While he was seated in the wheelchair with his hands cuffed behind his back, he quickly worked them off, and managed to stuff them up between the back padding and the back of the chair, out of sight. There would be no fingerprints on any of the equipment, and his work gloves were sitting on the cart, free of blood. The killer would have had gloves with Dr. Eppes' blood on them; either that or he would have left fingerprints on the scalpel – one or the other. The wouldn't find his fingerprints, and if they didn't find gloves, Morgan would claim, it would support his story that the killer was someone else, and had obviously fled while still wearing them. In fact, he would say that as he was cleaning rooms, he noticed a man in scrubs coming out of a room down the hallway – it might have been Eppes' room.

Don Eppes' injury was another matter. That idea had occurred to him while he was waiting for a plastic surgeon to give him an evaluation of his facial injury. Don Eppes would claim Morgan had purposely cut him with the scalpel, but Morgan would claim the opposite – that Eppes had picked up the scalpel and tried to kill him, and the agent had been cut while they were struggling. Ryan would maintain that after the agent had been accidentally cut, Morgan had managed to knock the scalpel out of his hand. No one could argue the point – _he_ wasn't wearing gloves, _his_ fingerprints weren't on it, and Don Eppes' fingerprints were. In fact, he could file a suit of his own against Agent Eppes for police brutality. The thought made him smile, at least with one side of his face.

As far as his equipment went, all of his own surgical supplies were at the apartment he'd just rented behind the pawnshop, and so was the black van – he'd used the hospital equipment and supplies for this job, had driven the Mediclean van. The best part of it was that he'd rented the apartment under an assumed name; theoretically, it would be impossible for them to find it. He'd paid cash two months in advance; the owner wouldn't come looking for him for at least that long. He even had the hotel room rented through the end of the month, and had a few things left there, clothes and such, none of it incriminating. If they demanded to search his place, he could give them the hotel room. Even if they thought to look for another residence, they wouldn't find the apartment under the name of Ryan Morgan.

Yes, in fact, he could make the sure the feds' case was entirely based on circumstantial evidence. The only fly in the ointment was the professor, and it would be his word against Morgan's. A good lawyer could throw reasonable doubt on the professor's ID of the killer.

With that in mind, he'd immediately demanded a lawyer, and they allowed him one phone call while he was waiting for the surgeon. He made it to his mother, quickly explaining he'd been falsely accused, and asked her to retain legal counsel for him. Mom would take care of him; she always did. His parents had the money for a lawyer, a good one.

The surgeon came in, already in his surgical gown. "Mr. Morgan," he said, trying to hide his expression of distaste, "I am going to need to operate on your face immediately. I will do my best, but I'm afraid you may be facing irreparable nerve damage on that side of your face, along with an extensive scar, which I will also do my best to repair. I will also be resetting your nose. Please be advised, however, that you will probably come out of this with some disfigurement."

Morgan's gut twisted. His face, his beautiful face – the night was turning into one unbearable string of happenings. He'd finally thought he was going to have what he'd wished for so long; uninterrupted time with the professor, the chance to cut that delectable skin, and finally do away with the one threat to his freedom. Not only was that ruined for the second time, but he'd been caught, and now the surgeon was telling him he would be permanently scarred. The anesthetist was there now, administering the sedation for his surgery, but Morgan barely heard him speak, barely acknowledged that the man was putting him under.

'Fucking Eppes,' he thought, boiling with hatred and fury, as the anesthetic began to work. Both of them – he hated them, he hated them, he hated them…

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It was one of the longest nights Don could remember. None of them slept; David and Colby were at Cedars for much of the night, making sure Ryan Morgan stayed under wraps. They reported in periodically, letting Don know Morgan had come out of surgery and that he'd been put in a room, his left ankle chained to the bed. In addition to Colby and David, two LAPD guards were stationed outside the room. If Ryan Morgan was going to try to escape, he was going to have to go through four big, armed guards, all with a grudge against him.

Megan had stayed to supervise the crime scene, along with Liz. Wright had come down also for a while, and Don joined them after Charlie had been sedated, and was safely in a room. Alan was with Charlie, and just in case, they'd posted a guard outside the room. Morgan had vehemently denied being the killer, and although Don was sure they had the right man, he wasn't going to take a chance. Not again. There was no way Charlie would survive another attack, he was sure, at least not mentally, even if he made it through this physically. Don wasn't entirely sure Charlie would make it through this one without cracking.

He stood in the hall outside Charlie's former room and watched the crime scene people work, mentally replaying the night. He'd walked right past Morgan in the hall. If only he'd realized right then who was walking by him, if only he'd stopped him before he'd gotten to Charlie. He'd said as much to Alan, but his father pointed out that the reverse could have been true – if Don hadn't managed to piece things together in time, Charlie wouldn't be with them now. Take the blessings God gives you, Alan had said, and be grateful. Well, Don wasn't grateful, he was pissed. Pissed at himself for missing Morgan the first time, and pissed he hadn't killed the man when he found him. When he'd opened the door to Charlie's room, his first instinct had been to shoot, but he was afraid the bullet would go through the killer and hit Charlie, or worse, that he'd miss the killer entirely, and hit his brother instead. So he'd launched himself at the man; he still didn't remember it clearly. He'd been mad with hatred and fury; the emotions had completely fried his mental circuits. All he could think about was putting an end to that evil; that blight on society, the monster who had hurt his brother. It was a shame he hadn't.

Wright was standing down the hall with the phone to his ear, and he snapped it shut and walked toward Don. "We're going to need to pull you aside and get some pictures of your face and torso," he said. "I've got a man coming down. We just got word from LAPD. Apparently, Morgan is filing charges of police brutality against you. We need to get some shots of your own injuries, so we have evidence he resisted arrest." He raised an eyebrow. "You did inform him he was being arrested?"

"Yeah." Thank God, he had, even though he was beating the hell out of Morgan at the time. "I even gave him his Miranda rights, but I told Colby to give them again before he talked to him." Don raised an eyebrow of his own. "He _did_ try to stab me."

"Yeah, I know," grunted Wright. "Asshole. Well, we've got him now."

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Alan sat next to Charlie, holding his hand, gently stroking the back of it with his thumb. It was thin and lifeless; Charlie was out cold. Dr. Raine had stepped in and specified a sedative, a stronger one than the floor doctor was going to prescribe, and it had put Charlie under within minutes after its administration. For an hour before that, though, they'd kept him awake while the medication, the 'sux,' they'd called it, had worn off. They kept testing his motor functions until he was able to move his arm and hands normally, and all the while Charlie had laid there, pale and quiet, his face expressionless, his eyes on the far wall. Alan was terrified they were losing him again, that Charlie was going to break completely this time. The only ray of hope was that Charlie was responding to the medical personnel when they spoke, moving appropriately when they asked him.

Now that he was alone with his thoughts, Alan pondered how they'd arrived at this point. Life lately had been an existence in some previously unimagined circle of hell, one from which there seemed to be no escape, up until now. Now, things would be different, Alan told himself. It was going to end – it had to end. They finally had the killer in custody, after all, now didn't they?

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Don stirred in the chair, and grunted with pain. He'd fallen asleep in the recliner in Charlie's room at around four in the morning. Early morning light was streaming through the window, and he grimaced as he lifted his arm and looked at his watch. Seven a.m. He looked across the room; his father was nodding in his chair and Charlie still appeared to be out. Thank God for sedatives. He blinked, and gingerly touched his puffy eye. It wasn't swollen shut, but he could see the lids framing his field of view. It was annoying. His hand felt stiff, and he looked down at it – the knuckles were red and swollen, and the cut in his side was aching. His whole body was stiff – he was definitely feeling his age and the effects of the battle this morning.

There was a sound across the room, a muffled sob, and stiff or not, Don was on his feet in an instant. Alan had blinked and was staring at him groggily as Don headed for the bed, his heart sinking as he saw Charlie. His brother's eyes were closed, but tears were streaming down his face. "Hey," he said softly, as Alan stood and moved next to the bed with him.

Charlie's eyes opened, just a slit, and he closed them immediately and ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the tears. "I'm s-sorry," he whispered. "This is all just – a little much."

"Charlie, that's the understatement of the year," Alan said gently, in a voice gravelly from fatigue. "Don't apologize."

Don said nothing, just gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. As much as he hated to see the tears, the fact that Charlie was responding to them relieved him beyond measure.

Alan was awake now, and going into fuss mode. "How long have you been awake? Do you need pain medication? Water?"

"I just woke up," Charlie said, slowly opening his eyes again. "The pain isn't too bad if I don't move." He swallowed, cleared his throat, and looked up at Don, the dark eyes still moist. "I don't remember clearly – you did say you got him?"

"Yeah," said Don. "We got him."

Charlie sighed, and closed his eyes, and Don could see him relax, imperceptibly. "That's good then," he whispered. "That's good."

Don's cell phone was vibrating, and he flipped it open, heading for the door. "Eppes."

"Where are you?" Wright's voice came over the line.

"Still at the hospital," Don replied, pushing through the door out into the hallway and turning away from the guard seated outside. "What's up?"

"I'm on my way into the office, but I just got a call from the D.A. We got the name of Morgan's attorney; he's flying in this morning. It's Randall Lee Parker."

Don felt his stomach drop a bit. Parker was big time, a nationally known defense attorney. "How in the hell can a janitor afford Randall Lee Parker?"

"Apparently Morgan's family has money. We've got some info on Morgan coming from the Denver office – there's a meeting at 8:00 – you'd better plan on being there."

"Yeah, okay. See you there." Don flipped the phone shut, his jaw tightening, and pushed back through the door into the room. He approached Charlie's bedside, and his face softened. "Hey, I gotta go into the office," he said. "I'll check back later, okay?"

Charlie nodded, silently, but Alan frowned. "You should be home resting, yourself. Why do you need to go in so early? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong – we just have a lot do," said Don, evasively, as he headed for the door. "I'll see you later."

He grabbed a coffee and a bagel on the way in, eating as he drove, and arrived at the office feeling decidedly grungy. Megan and Liz were in, both of them in the clothes they'd worn the night before, too, so he didn't feel quite so bad. Colby and David came in right after him, fresh from Cedars-Sinai. Well, maybe fresh wasn't the word.

It was a battle-weary bunch that congregated in the conference room. Wright, David, Colby, Liz, Megan, and a man from the crime scene lab named Peterson were all there, and the group had just taken their places when Marcy appeared at the door with a Courier Express envelope, her face troubled. She looked at Don. "This came for you this morning."

He just stared at her for a moment, dumbstruck; then grabbed the envelope, pulling out the single sheet of paper, his heart pounding. They had the guy – what on earth could this possibly be? His face paled as he read the two lines, and he laid the paper on the table.

David was closest, and he picked it up and read it in a hushed tone. "Dead bird. You lose, Eppes."

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End Chapter 46


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. I'm nearing the end of this tale, and there are two things yet to be decided - Jill vs. Amita, and Morgan's fate. Will Morgan be found guilty; will he go free? Decisions, decisions..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 47**

Don stared at the paper, and Megan spoke in a reassuring tone. "That had to have been dropped off last night, Don, for a morning delivery."

"I know," said Don shakily, rising and pulling out his cell. "You'll excuse me for a minute while I double-check, though. I've been burned too many times by this guy." He stepped out to make the call, and the group stared at the paper on the table, each of them thinking how different this morning would be if Don hadn't gotten to the hospital when he did.

Don stepped back in. "Everything's quiet at the hospital. He probably did send it last night before it went down, but I have Marcy double-checking that with Courier Express."

With that, Wright started the meeting. First on the agenda was a report from the crime lab, with Joe Peterson there to make the report.

"We've got DNA going on all the blood samples," Peterson began. "It'll take a day or so to even get the first samples back, and we've got a lot of them. We've got them all typed though, all male. Most of the blood on the floor was Sumner's, and there were two other types, which we think came from the killer and from Agent Eppes. Dr. Eppes' blood seemed to have been primarily confined to the gurney he was lying on, and the scalpel we found on the floor."

He put up a list on the projector. "This is a list of the items we've found and catalogued into evidence. You can see there are a bunch of surgical supplies and such; we think that most, if not all of them belonged to the hospital. We have a hospital representative coming to look at them to verify that. We left the big stuff there – the cart, the ventilator, and so on, but we had techs go over them for fingerprints and any other evidence. So far, we've got no prints, at least not from the killer, not even on the scalpel. The only prints on the scalpel belonged to Don Eppes."

"Well, that makes sense," Colby said. "Morgan had gloves on."

Peterson frowned. "Not when he was processed. We bagged all his clothes, his shoes, everything he had on him. There were work gloves on the cart, but they had no blood on them – he couldn't have been wearing them when he was working on Dr. Eppes." He stopped, looking at little flustered; his last statement had been met with disturbed looks, and he remembered he was talking about someone they knew.

Colby was shaking his head. "Not work gloves – I cuffed him, I should know, Joe. He was wearing surgical gloves, and they did have blood on them."

"Well, we found no surgical gloves," insisted Peterson. "Not in the room, not when he was processed at Cedars, and we even checked the ambulance he rode in."

"Forget that for now," interjected Wright. "Send someone back to look again. We have plenty of DNA on the guy – we have hair samples from the shower at the meatpacking plant, and I think you guys found some in the shower at the first warehouse too, am I right? If we get a location on the hotel in Albuquerque, we can possibly come up with DNA from there. We established the killer was likely from Denver, and had medical experience. According to info in this morning from McKelvey, Morgan was from Denver, and had medical experience – in fact, he interned for a while at the University of Colorado Hospital. He was discharged for stealing meds a few weeks before the killings started."

Megan nodded. "That fits the profile – we were looking for a trigger – I'm sure that was it."

Wright continued. "We'll probably find his own drugs and surgical equipment when we get a search warrant for his place, maybe more DNA from victims. When we start stacking everything up, we have a good case, even without Dr. Eppes' testimony."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to lock it up," said Don firmly. "I'd rather that Charlie didn't have to testify."

Wright looked at him with narrowed eyes. "I don't know if we can get around that – he witnessed multiple rapes and three murders firsthand. That would carry a lot of weight."

Don's mouth twisted, stubbornly, but he said nothing. Charlie could submit sworn and notarized written testimony, he thought to himself, but Don would make that argument when the time came. It was early, yet, and there was a lot of work to be done.

Wright looked at Colby and David. "What's the news from the hospital?"

"We talked to the surgeon," Colby said. "Morgan's got a nasty cut on his face, probably nerve damage, which will affect his facial movement, a busted nose, a black eye, and some assorted bruises. He'll definitely live, though."

Wright looked at Don. "How much of that did you inflict?"

"We both went down when I tackled him," Don replied. "He was holding the scalpel up, and brought it down, trying to stab me, but I deflected his arm and it just caught me on the side. As we went down, he twisted and his face hit the metal side of the bed. That's when he cut his face – could have broken his nose then, too, for all I know. I'm sure I gave him the black eye. He went for the scalpel, and I pushed it out of the way – it slid across the floor."

Peterson nodded. "What we found supports that. We found blood and bits of skin on the bed frame, and we found the scalpel across the floor with Agent Eppes' prints on it. We should be able to show that his worst injuries were accidental, and occurred while he was resisting arrest."

Don got the impression Wright was watching him closely as Peterson spoke, but the A.D. simply nodded. "Okay." He looked at Colby and David. "What else?"

David made a face. "Randall Lee Parker didn't waste any time getting here. He flew in by private jet from D.C. – he was already in with Morgan when we left."

Wright grunted, and shook his head. "Now that guy's trouble. We need to make sure we make no mistakes on this one – that man will make our lives miserable if we do."

"Okay," said Don. "We've got a lot to follow up on here. We need to find out where Morgan lives and get a search warrant, both for his house and the blue van, if we find it."

"I'll take that one," said Liz.

"Colby," continued Don, "check with Mediclean; find out when Morgan started to work there, and where he might have been working before then. I want to establish his whereabouts for the last several weeks – we might be able do that via employment records. We know he worked as a waiter at Charlie's awards dinner, and there might be others. It would be good if we could put him in the Seattle area during the murders there."

"I'll hook up with Jill Cash," Colby said. "She can probably have some of their people run the Seattle check."

"Megan, work the Denver angle. Get Morgan's background there; find out the particulars of the stolen med incident. Dig up anything you can. You three get started – David, you go home and get some rest, and come back at 12:30. You can follow up on anything they've got going at that point. Then the rest of you head home and get some sleep."

They rose and headed out to their assignments, and Marcy poked her head in the door. "You were right," she said. "Courier Express said the envelope was dropped off last night, under the name of Joe Bird, shortly after ten p.m."

Don rose and nodded at her, feeling a wave of relief. They did have the right guy – Morgan _had_ to be the right guy. He started to head for the door, but Wright motioned for him to stay. "You need to go get some rest yourself."

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not. You look like hell. Get out of here and get some rest – that's an order. You can check in this afternoon with David, if you feel you have to be here." Wright paused for a moment. "You have to be on your A-game with this one, Don. You almost blew it in the hospital – we're going to have do some damage control now. You know Parker will take that police brutality shit and run with it. Get some rest, and get your head on straight." He turned and walked out the door, leaving no room for a protest, and Don watched him go, silently.

A half hour later, Don let himself into his apartment. He shuffled in, his mind numb with fatigue, and stared at the dirty plate in his sink, crusted with lasagna residue. It was less than twelve hours since he'd put it there, and he felt as though it was a lifetime. He staggered into his room, kicked his shoes off, set the alarm, crawled into bed, and within minutes, was asleep.

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When Don thought about it later, the next several days seemed to fall into a black hole. He could remember nothing of them, other than running back and forth from the hospital to the office. Morgan had been released from Cedars-Sinai into custody, and had been denied bail, but his attorney was being very close-lipped concerning his defense. As far as Charlie went, his second attack was definitely a physical setback, but he was mobile, eating and communicating this time, and by five days later, the doctors had determined he was well enough to go home. 'Well enough' was a relative term; although Charlie was healed somewhat physically, and seemed to be at a functioning level mentally, no one still had any idea of what he was dealing with inside.

'Quiet' was the word that came to mind when Don looked at him, as he watched him step from the wheelchair into the back of Alan's car. Today was the day they were bringing him home, after weeks of being away. In spite of the fact that Charlie was talking again, it seemed he was still on the other side of a glass wall; they could see him, and he would look at them, eyes dark in a solemn pale face, but his expression gave little clue as to what was in his head. They could talk to him, and he would answer back, but with as few words as possible, in a quiet voice. Most of the time he was silent, far away; he offered very little of what he was thinking, and never invited conversation. He was there, but he wasn't – a shadow of the Charlie that Don knew before all of this happened. He got the impression that Charlie was barely holding on - frail, both physically and mentally – avoiding confrontation of either type, because he simply couldn't take any more.

The afternoon he came home, Charlie insisted on walking from the driveway to the house, but by the time he got there, he had to lean on the doorframe for a moment; he was panting and had broken out in a cold sweat. Don had tried to put an arm around him to support him, but Charlie cringed and pulled away, so he let him be, and after a moment Charlie began to move again with small careful steps, until he made it to the sofa. He didn't sit down right away, however; he just stood, looking around him, his eyes traveling over the room as if he'd never seen it before. His gaze wandered into the dining room, then to the kitchen door; and his eyes darkened. Don knew he was remembering the attack, but Charlie said nothing, and finally sank onto the sofa. His legs trembled as he sat, worn out from the effort, and he leaned against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

"You okay?" Don asked. Alan had already bustled out to the kitchen, and Don stood there, feeling as though he should do something, but he wasn't sure what.

"Yeah." Charlie didn't open his eyes.

"Charlie, I'm putting out some cookies. Do you want milk or coffee with them?" Alan called from the kitchen. His main goal in life these days seemed to be getting food into Charlie, and Charlie seemed to be completely uninterested in it.

"Just some water, thanks." Charlie replied. Even though he managed to speak loudly enough for Alan to hear him, he still sounded quiet somehow. He _exuded_ quiet, he personified it. He opened his eyes and looked at Don. "This is weird."

Don's heart gave a little leap; his brother actually had initiated a conversation. He had to fight hard to keep from looking too excited; he didn't want to scare him back into his shell. He moved casually over to the armchair next to the sofa, and flopped into it. "Yeah? How so?"

Charlie shrugged a little, and looked around him. "I don't know. Just – weird." That, it appeared, was the extent of the discussion. He lapsed into silence again, and closed his eyes.

Alan stepped briskly into the room and set the plate of cookies and a glass of water on the table in front of Charlie, and headed back out to get coffee. His dad was relieved to be home, Don knew; he could see it in the way he walked, the set of his shoulders. Even though the house was Charlie's, Alan still ruled the daily routine, the cooking, the cleaning. It was his realm, and those were his ways of taking care of others, of alleviating stress. Don knew it meant a lot to him to have that routine, that sense of control, back. It seemed to ground him – Don had hoped being home would do that for Charlie too, but at least for the moment, Charlie still appeared to be floating. '_He'll get there,_' Don told himself, fighting back a little frisson of anxiety. '_He'll get there.' _He watched as Charlie opened his eyes and reached for the water, took a sip; and completely ignoring the cookies, leaned his head back on the sofa, and stared at the ceiling with dark, somber eyes.

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End Chapter 47


	48. Chapter 48

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 48**

Randall Lee Parker set his briefcase on the Formica table, and leaned back in his chair. He studied Ryan Morgan; a week after his surgery the man's bruises and swelling were fading, and the lasting effects of his injuries were becoming apparent. The nose would heal, although just slightly crookedly, and the black eye was nearly gone. The left side of his face however, was an issue. In spite of the plastic surgery, Morgan bore a scar that went from his nose across his cheek to his ear. Now that the swelling was going down, the skin was puckering in spots, and worse yet, there had been irreparable nerve damage, causing that side of his face to droop. His mouth hung slackly at the corner; his entire face seemed skewed, and occasionally, a thin stream of drool would escape and trail down from the flaccid corner of his lips. He had gone from being an extremely good-looking man to someone who would frighten children – maybe adults, for that matter. It would be fitting, Parker thought, if he'd actually done what they'd accused him of – he now looked like a monster.

Whether or not his client was a serial killer was immaterial to Parker; his job was to defend him, and truthfully, at this point, he wasn't sure if Morgan was guilty or not. The feds were building an elaborate case, full of evidence. Parker didn't doubt they had an excellent case against the serial killer, but his defense was simple. He would acknowledge the existence of such a man – but that man, that killer, wasn't his client. The DNA evidence, Parker would claim; had been planted by the feds, driven by the obviously vindictive Agent Eppes, and their desperation to put the case behind them. Eppes was unstable, Parker would maintain, as evidenced by his brutal and uncalled-for attack on his client. Parker had supreme confidence in his abilities; he could cast doubt on Mother Teresa's virtue if he put his mind to it, and many other lawyers had questioned the origin of physical evidence before him; it wasn't an uncommon ploy.

No, the biggest obstacle wouldn't be the evidence; it would be the testimony of the key witness, really, the only witness – Charles Eppes. If Parker could manage to rattle the professor enough so the jury questioned his testimony, perhaps insinuate that he had gone through a nervous breakdown, maybe even get him to break on the stand, he might well win a case that was garnering national attention. Another feather in his cap. And if not, well, the publicity was worth it, whether he won or not.

"What do you have for me?" asked Morgan.

Parker's ego usually made him impervious to anyone else, whether they thought they commanded the situation or not. When he faced Morgan however, he could feel a slight chill run down his spine. Those icy blue eyes, so cold….

"I filed the police brutality suit against Don Eppes today," he replied briskly, brushing imaginary lint off his Italian suit. "We won't push for it to go to trial – they've done their homework and have grounds for dismissal. It's more valuable to us for it to be pending – we'll let it sit out there unresolved while the trial goes on. We don't need a conviction, and probably wouldn't get one anyway – all we need is the question of impropriety."

"I hope he rots in hell."

Parker raised an eyebrow. "I'd keep those sentiments to myself, if I were you. I'm going to continue to file motions to stay hearings, although they're pushing to bring this to trial quickly. The longer we delay, the older the evidence becomes, and the less credible in a jury's eyes."

"Yeah, well, that's easy for you to say. You aren't stuck in prison while you're waiting."

Parker eyed the thin stream of drool meandering down the side of Morgan's chin. "Have patience. If we play the game right, you'll be a free man soon enough."

'_Not soon enough for me,_' Morgan thought to himself. He dreamed of that day, and he knew exactly what he would do once he was out.

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Alan stepped into the solarium three days later, and eyed the sleeping figure on the futon. Charlie was curled on his side – not his normal sleeping position, which was generally at least partly on his stomach. Even though Charlie's wounds seemed to be healing – at least as far as Alan knew, Charlie wouldn't let him look at them – his son still moved a bit stiffly, and hadn't gone back to his usual position when he slept. Alan wasn't quite sure if that was because the injuries still bothered him, or if it was something psychological that drove the position – fetal, curled in on himself. It personified his son's behavior lately - quiet, introspective, troubled, as if his mind was curled up too, in a tight defensive ball. Today was probably not going to help.

"Charlie, it's time to get up."

Charlie stirred, opened his eyes a crack, and shut them again, a tiny frown line appearing between his brows. "Charlie," Alan said gently, "Don's going to be here in forty minutes. You need to shower and eat."

'_Especially eat_,' he thought to himself; Charlie's food intake had been barely at the subsistence level since he'd come home. Charlie wasn't due for a follow-up appointment with Dr. Raine until the next morning, but she'd been calling to check on him daily, and Alan had brought up his eating habits, or lack of them, yesterday. She'd assured him that as long as his son was eating at least a little of every meal he should be okay, that they shouldn't push him. Alan wondered though, if she'd say the same thing when she saw him; he was painfully thin, and appeared to have lost weight since leaving the hospital.

Charlie sighed and opened his eyes, pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing a little. Alan gave him a nod. "I made eggs this morning – hurry with your shower, son." Charlie looked at him, dark eyes in a pale face, waiflike, haunted, then nodded and looked away. No talking; Charlie didn't talk much these days, either. Alan sighed and trudged out of the doorway, headed for the kitchen.

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Don glanced sideways at Charlie as they walked down the hallway of the Parker Center. He purposely kept his normally quick stride slower; the trip from the parking deck to the LAPD headquarters building alone had been enough to tire Charlie. Once inside, they headed down a long hallway to a desk, where a woman advised them to wait for a moment. Charlie was trying not to show it, but he was breathing heavily, and a faint bead of sweat dotted his upper lip. He was pale, and as Don looked more closely, he realized that his brother was shaking slightly. Whether that was from the walk or from what he was about to undergo, Don wasn't sure. "Here Charlie, have a seat for a minute."

He indicated a row of utilitarian chairs, and Charlie moved over and sank into one of them, staring at the floor. Don frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah." The voice was quiet, a little husky.

"We can put this off another couple of days, if you're not up for it."

"No, you can't." A bit of impatience flashed across Charlie's face and he shot Don a dark glance. "I told you I was okay." That was a lie, Charlie thought to himself, but he knew there really wasn't a choice. He had to do this at some point, and it was better for the case if he did it sooner rather than later.

Don turned back to the receptionist, and flashed his badge. "If Walker's back there, I can take him back. We don't have to make the Lieutenant come out here." What he really meant was, '_I don't want to make Charlie wait any longer than he has to_,' but he was trying to sound polite.

Apparently, 'polite' didn't manifest in his voice, because the woman, a plump middle-aged dowager with curly iron-gray hair, gave him a disapproving glance. "They're still setting up. You don't want him-" she glanced at Charlie – "in that hallway while they're moving them around. I'll let you know when you can go back."

Don opened his mouth, took a look at her face, then sighed and gave up, and wandered over to sit next to Charlie, who continued to stare at the floor, as if mesmerized. Don shot him another glance; he couldn't help himself. He kept searching for some clue as to what was going on in Charlie's head; kept watching – for what? Normalcy? Signs of a breakdown? Charlie was as unreadable as the Sphinx, and only slightly more talkative.

Finally, the woman gave them a nod and they headed back. Don had been there before, but it had been a couple of years – if an agent needed to be present at a lineup at LAPD headquarters, he usually sent David or Colby. Phelps had chosen LAPD to run the lineup; they could have done it at FBI headquarters, but Don suspected Phelps had deliberately selected a group that would appear impartial – a group not headed by someone related to one of the victims.

Once through the doors he paused for a moment, getting his bearings, glancing down the hallways in front of him, before he ushered Charlie to his right. The hallways were short but undistinguishable; they all looked the same, and Don was relying on a two-year-old memory to get them to the correct room. As they stepped up to a door, it opened, and Walker appeared in it, much to Don's relief. The lieutenant saw them; he swung the door wider to let them in and as Charlie moved to enter, a person appeared in Don's peripheral vision down the hall. He glanced to his left, and tried to keep his expression neutral as he took in the figure, familiar from multiple newscasts of previous sensational trials. Randall Lee Parker was coming out of another doorway and was eyeing them, and especially Charlie, with interest, his eyes resting on him as he passed through the entrance. Don moved behind Charlie quickly and shut the door, blocking the lawyer's view. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help but feel that he needed to keep Charlie away from the man.

There were more people in the observation room than normal. Walker, two police officers, D.A. Roger Phelps, and two clerks were in the small room, along with another figure in the corner - Colby. His presence was unexpected, and Don raised an eyebrow as Charlie moved to stand beside him.

"I thought you could use some moral support," Colby told them quietly, and a look of gratitude flashed across Charlie's face as he turned to face the rest of the group, and the curtained window beyond them.

The D.A. stepped up and shook Charlie's hand. "Thank you for coming down, Dr. Eppes. With your permission, I'd like to try something a little unorthodox. I want to record your identification with a video camera, if it's all right with you. Depending on how this goes, we may submit it along with a written statement of your ID."

"That's fine," Charlie replied. His voice was steady, but sound thin, stretched. His eyes shifted toward the curtain, and behind him, Don could see Colby studying him, his blue eyes narrowed in speculation and filled with concern. His expression made Don re-examine Charlie, himself, taking in his total appearance, not just his facial expressions, and it hit home suddenly how Charlie's clothes hung on his gaunt frame, how much tension was apparent in his body and the set of his jaw. Don looked up as Colby exchanged a glance with him, and then his gaze flickered back to Charlie as one of the officers stepped toward the curtain. The other lifted a camera and began to record.

Charlie felt his heart start to pound.

The officer near the viewing window spoke to him, the speech obviously one he had given multiple times. "I will pull the curtain aside, and you will be looking through a one-way window. The men on the other side will not be able to see you or hear you. Take your time. We would like you to identify the man who kidnapped you, and who attacked you in the hospital. They will be holding numbers; simply call out his number. Is that clear?"

"Yes." The word came out hoarsely, and Charlie cleared his throat. "Yes."

The curtain was pulled back, and as Charlie caught sight of the half dozen men in the room he stiffened, and then looked slightly surprised. "What happened to his face?"

Everyone in the room knew he was referring to Morgan, but they needed Charlie to make the clarification. "Please, simply identify the man as requested," the officer said, not unkindly.

Charlie's breathing had increased slightly; and he swallowed. "Number 3. His face is scarred since I saw him last, but it's him.

"You're absolutely certain."

Charlie nodded. "Absolutely." He was shaking slightly, but the word came out with conviction.

"Let it be noted the victim selected candidate number 3," the officer said. He pulled the curtain shut, and the other officer shut off the camera.

The D.A. nodded with approval, and clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Thank you Doctor." Charlie nodded and backed away as Phelps looked at Don and Walker. He heard him speaking quietly to them, but all he could think about was getting out of there. Seeing the killer again had thrown him into a tailspin; he could feel the beginnings of a full-fledged panic attack, and to get control he tried to focus on what the D.A. was saying, although it was clear it wasn't meant for him.

"That was perfect," Phelps was saying, "– there was no hesitation, and he recognized him immediately in spite of the scar. If we can submit the video, it will help convince the jury there was no question in his mind. If we're allowed to use this along with his sworn statement, we may be able to do this without Dr. Eppes' testimony."

Colby listened to the conversation, but he kept glancing at Charlie, who stood on the other side of the group. The professor was pale and breathing erratically, and Colby, concerned, looked back at Don to get his attention. Before he had a chance to speak he heard the door open, and to his consternation, he looked back to see Charlie disappearing through the doorway.

"Charlie!" Don called out, trying to make his way around Walker and one of the officers, who were blocking the way through the cramped room. "Charlie, wait!"

Out in the hall, Charlie had hesitated for a split second, confused over which way to turn to get out; the hallways all looked the same. He no longer really cared, however; he couldn't breathe, his heart was pounding, he felt about to explode – all that mattered was getting out. He put his head down, picked a direction, and made his way down the short corridor, ignoring Don's voice behind him. He had to get out of there, had to get out…

In a few short strides, he reached an intersection of hallways, and started to turn to his left, when he was brought up short, stunned. A man with a briefcase was walking next to a guard, who was leading a manacled prisoner down the cross hallway, coming from his right. It was _him_ – it was the killer himself, and Charlie stopped dead in his tracks at the intersection of the hallways, his face white with shock. The guard pulled Morgan to a stop, and Morgan looked at Charlie, eyes gleaming. Charlie's breath halted in his throat; he gazed back into the blue eyes, like a bird mesmerized by a snake.

"Charlie." Charlie felt Don's hand on his arm, pulling him. He stepped back two steps, then began to regain his senses and allowed Don to turn him around and pull him back down the hallway, his heart hammering; his knees like water. He couldn't see the gazes of Parker and Morgan behind him, but he felt them, boring into his back.

Don pulled him back down to the door of the viewing room, and turned Charlie to face him, with a quick glance down the hall. Morgan, the guard, and Parker had passed by, and were already out of sight, and Don turned back to Charlie, exasperated, concern in his eyes. "Charlie, what did you think you were doing? There was a reason we were waiting in there – and you headed the wrong direction, to top it off."

Charlie rubbed his face with a shaking hand, and closed his eyes. "I don't know – I just felt like I had to get out." He opened them again and looked at the floor, defeated, the remnants of pure terror still in his eyes, nervously fingering the cast on his wrist.

Don sighed, and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay." He glanced up at Walker and Phelps, who were standing in the doorway, and gave them a nod; then looked back at Charlie, and put an arm around his shoulder. They could hear a door open and close down the hallway. "I think they're through. Let's get out of here, okay?"

Colby had stepped out in the hallway and fell into the step beside them, and he exchanged a glance with Don over Charlie's head. He knew what Don was thinking; and he felt the same way. There was no way in hell Charlie would make it through a trial, facing the killer, being confronted by Parker and a ruthless cross-examination. They were going to have to do this without his testimony.

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End Chapter 48


	49. Chapter 49

_A/N: Hi gang! One of you made the remark - I believe it was masondixon, that they shouldn't be making suggestions as to how the story would go, that I was the writer and you were the readers. That was very kind and respectful, my dear md, but nothing could be further from the truth. Way back in the Chapter 1 disclaimer, I told all of you that unlike most of my stories, I'd be writing this as I went along and welcomed all of your suggestions. You all gave me a lot of guidance on the Amita/Jill thing, and I used other pieces too, such as Tanager's art therapy, as you suggested them. I am only four chapters ahead right now, and although I did make a decision on Amita/Jill there have been a lot of questions as I pondered how to end this. Charlie is in a deep depression, and one of the questions I asked myself is, will he try to commit suicide? Or will he fight his way out of the mental morass in which he finds himself? Concerning Morgan, would he go to trial, and if so, will Charlie have to face him and testify? Will they find Morgan guilty, or will he go free? If they do find him guilty, will he escape somehow, or end up on death row? _

_Last night, at around three or four in the morning, I lay awake thinking about the story, feeling a little bit like obsessed Charlie. I came up with a twist at the end that involves a rather unique whump, and I leave you to guess, how, and who? If none of you give me anything I like better, I may use that, but please feel free to comment and suggest._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 49**

Charlie sighed and stared out of the solarium windows, skyward. It was where he spent most of his time, lately, lost, floating, trying to find his way back to oblivion. He would get there for a little while each night, staring up at the stars through the windows; they reminded him of his visions before he went under, when he'd been successful at immersing himself in calculations. He hadn't been able, however, to achieve the same deep concentration; it was still eluding him, as if he'd worked it out of his system somehow. No matter how badly he wanted it, all he was able to achieve was a slight submersion, a dip in the pond. It didn't compare to being adrift in the ocean, but it was enough to get him to sleep at night, along with prescription sleep medication.

Sleep, he could manage. He slept a lot, and when he was awake, he had no energy and no appetite, for food or for life. He drifted through the day, hid in the solarium as much as he could, napping, pretending to nap, waiting for nighttime, and a few hours of medically induced peace. Oh, he'd forget from time to time; his mind would wander or be captured by something, but the memories would inevitably return, just as horrible, maybe more so, because of the respite. The blood, the screams, the agony on the faces of the victims, Morgan's sick fascinated blue eyes, his hands, touching… Every time the memories came back, Charlie felt a nauseating lurch in his gut, and he wanted to die.

He'd met with Susan Raine twice since he'd been out of the hospital; once the day after he'd gone to ID Ryan Morgan, last Thursday, and once yesterday. It had been yesterday, right? Tuesday. He'd lost track of time. That meant today must be Wednesday. As if he cared.

Susan, as she asked him to call her, wasn't happy with him. She had been at first, when he was still in the hospital; she'd told him he was making rapid progress considering his condition when they'd transferred him from Denver. Well, that progress had come to a grinding halt; if anything, he was backsliding into something else, something darker. He knew she was disturbed; so was his father, and he didn't care.

Amita was disturbed too. She'd come to see him that day at lunch time; she'd been over several times, and was always considerate and cheerful, patient with him, hiding her own hurt feelings and putting on a good show. It almost seemed as if she did care for him, but he wasn't kidding himself. Her actions were generated by guilt, and when she came to terms with that, she would leave. If he could feel, at the moment, he might have had just an inkling of hope – the hope that maybe it was for real, that maybe she really cared, that maybe it would work out - but he was beyond feeling. Or maybe, afraid to feel. It didn't matter, he didn't care. Didn't care …

He wanted nothing more than solitude, than simply to fade away among the stars, to dream, to escape, and perhaps one morning, if he was lucky, never wake up.

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"Okay, let's review the key points."

Don directed his request at Megan, to start. It was late Wednesday afternoon, and they were seated in the conference room with D.A. Roger Phelps, two of his assistants, Wright, Colby, Liz, and David. Megan glanced down at the file in front of her. "Point one is to establish a trigger for the killer. Our profiling told us that he was likely set off by a major event in his life. We believe that event, for Ryan Morgan, was being terminated from the internship at the University of Colorado Hospital. The first killing in Wyoming occurred a little over a week after that. In fact, we also have a tie-in to a motive. Morgan may have been taking out his anger on federal agents, because McKelvey's team headed up the investigation, but also because it was Allison Cook's father who removed Morgan from the internship – Dr. Cook was in charge. Morgan may have decided to get even, and created a smokescreen of killings in other cities so he could go back and take revenge on Dr. Cook and McKelvey by taking out Allison. In the process, he became addicted to the killing."

Phelps' assistants were scribbling furiously. "What about Agent Cook?" asked Phelps. "Does she think the man who attacked her was Morgan?"

Megan nodded. "That's a bit of a weak point. She says it could have been, and in retrospect she's sure it was him, but the fact that she didn't identify him right off the bat could be a problem."

Phelps pursed his lips. "True. Randall Lee Parker would probably jump on that one. For right now, we'll not plan to put her on the stand."

"One other point with respect to the profile," Megan continued. "The site where Charlie was kept was a butcher shop, which was targeted years ago by someone who left flayed animal carcasses on the property. Ryan Morgan grew up not far from there, in Idledale. He would have been a teenager at the time that occurred. Again, the behavior fits the profile, and he resided in the area at the time."

"As for physical evidence," she said, "the Denver office got no good fingerprints – he was very careful when handling victims, and appeared to wear gloves much of the time. We did, however, find DNA evidence - hair samples that matched Morgan's, at the site."

Don looked at Colby. "What do we have out of Seattle?"

"I tied in with Jill Cash, and she ran it down for us." Colby's blue eyes glinted with satisfaction. "We were looking at roughly two months following the Wyoming killing before the first victim here in L.A. Using temp agency employment records, we put Morgan here in L.A. about three weeks before Cookie Myers was taken. So that leaves a period of about five weeks in between. The first two weeks there was nothing – no killings, and no record of Morgan seeking employment anywhere in Seattle, no hotel or apartment rentals, at least under his own name. We think he was there, though, watching Mike Shire. The third week after the Wyoming killings, we can put him there for sure – that week he worked as a temp employee at a car wash on the west side of town. The Seattle killings began at the end of that third week, and continued the two weeks after that, ending when he kidnapped Joanie Shire. We think he immediately headed for L.A. – three days after her kidnapping he signed on with a temp agency here."

Phelps made a face. "But we only have temp records for one week in Seattle out of five? Too bad we couldn't put him there the whole time."

Colby's face fell a little. "Still, the timing all fits," he pointed out.

Don looked at David. "How about Albuquerque?"

"Good news, there," said David. "From Charlie's description, we narrowed it down to a couple of places, and showed the owners a picture of Morgan. There was a hotel on the west side of town – the owner there made a positive ID. He said a man of that description rented the last cottage in the back the day before the prostitute was discovered. SAC Martinez sent in a crime scene crew. The room had been cleaned, but not very well. They found samples of hair in the room and also when they took off the drain cover in the shower – Morgan's and Charlie's hair. They also found a trace of blood between the beds that matched Carlotta Dawes'. So we have DNA at the site, it corroborates Charlie's story, and another visual ID of Morgan by the hotel manager. That ID is a little shaky again – Morgan was wearing a wig, and according to Martinez, the hotel owner is older, drinks, and probably won't be that credible a witness in person. It might be better just to use his sworn statement."

"Agreed," replied Phelps.

"Okay," said Don. "When we met on Monday, we still had nothing on the blue van." He looked at Liz. "Any update?"

She shook her head, ruefully. "Nothing. No van, and we still haven't found where he kept the bulk of his belongings. The hotel room he gave us had very little, just a few clothes. The crime scene guys found a drop of blood on the carpet, but it didn't match any known vics, and there appeared to be an attempt to clean it up, maybe even by the hotel cleaning crew. It might have been there before Morgan rented the place."

Phelps shook his head. "That's a definite hole. We have to submit our case the day after tomorrow, and Parker then gets two weeks to finish putting together the defense. We need to find where Morgan put the van. All of his equipment might be in it."

"Two weeks?" asked Wright. "They set a trial date? When did that happen?"

"This morning," replied Phelps. "That's our little piece of news. Parker has been submitting motions to delay, and he finally ran out of excuses. The judge ordered the trial to start two weeks after submission of our case."

Don's eyes narrowed. "So where do we stand with Charlie's testimony? Are we going with the written statement?"

Phelps nodded. "The judge approved the video from his ID of Morgan. We'll use that and his sworn statement. With all of the DNA evidence, I think we have a strong enough case."

Don held back a sigh of relief, tried to look impartial. "Okay, then," he said. "I think we're done for now."

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Alan glanced up as the kitchen door swung open. "Oh, Donnie. I thought it was Charlie. I told him to come down a half hour ago. Larry will be here any minute – in fact he was supposed to be here by now."

Don sniffed appreciatively. "What's for dinner?"

"Fettucine Alfredo with chicken." Alan glanced at Don as he paced restlessly. "What's on your mind?"

Don glanced behind him, and moved closer, speaking quietly. "I just heard - the trial starts two weeks from Monday. Charlie doesn't have to testify."

Alan's face cleared, as the doorbell chimed. "Thank God for that. Do you mind getting that? I imagine it's Larry."

Don nodded, but hesitated at the door. "How's he doing?"

"Charlie?" Alan sighed and shook his head. "About the same. Susan's worried, and frankly, so am I."

So was Don. He's stopped by at the Craftsman at least every other day since Charlie had come home, each time expecting something, hoping for just a bit of progress. If anything, Charlie seemed to be backsliding, drifting along in a deepening malaise, more silent by the day. Don's worry was growing, but with it was a sense of impatience – not with Charlie, but with the situation. He had expected Charlie's return home to herald the beginning of a return to normal, and normal still seemed far away; and worse yet, seemed to be getting farther, rather than closer. Charlie showed no inclination to pull himself out of the funk he was in, no inclination to return to campus, no inclination to patch things up with Amita, no inclination to _live._ As he opened the door to see Larry's face, his eyebrows raised tentatively in a hopeful expression, Don realized others sensed it too.

The visit was awkward, at least for Don. Charlie drifted downstairs moments after Larry's arrival and sat next to his friend, but barely participated in the conversation. Larry didn't seem to notice and kept up a running patter, but he ended up directing most of it toward Don, because Alan spent a good deal of the hour before dinner in the kitchen, and Charlie was uncommunicative. Not that Don didn't like talking with Larry, but the nuances of different measurement methods of the relative masses of subatomic particles wasn't exactly his forte. As the hour wore on, he even began to get slightly irritated with Charlie, who was moping listlessly on the sofa. At least he could make an effort to speak – Larry had come to see him.

Irritation was fueled by anxiety as they sat down to dinner. The fettucine was excellent and Don started by tucking into his with gusto, but as he glanced up and saw Charlie playing with his food; he felt a lump of fear in his gut that made it hard to swallow. Charlie's hand was positively skeletal, and the dining room light accented the hollows in his cheeks. He looked like he needed a month's worth of meals, and he wasn't eating this one. Not one bite. Alan was watching his brother with apprehension and disappointment, but said nothing, keeping up a forced cheerful banter with Larry. Don glowered at them. How could they sit there and yak as if this wasn't a problem? Charlie was starving himself to death, and they were ignoring it. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. "Charlie, for God's sake, _eat_ something."

Charlie looked up at him in surprise, and his fork, which had been idly twirling strands of pasta, stilled. His eyes narrowed and darkened with a flash of anger, and he set his fork down deliberately and rose from the table. Picking up his plate, he headed for the kitchen, his mouth tight. "I've had enough, thanks."

The door swung shut behind him, and Don looked back to face Alan and Larry, who were staring at him. "What? He wasn't eating – he was just playing with his food."

They could hear the back door slam shut, and Alan sighed. "Yelling at him doesn't accomplish much, I'm afraid; I found that out first-hand. Of course, pleading with him doesn't help either."

Larry started to rise from the table. "Perhaps I'll go have a word with him."

Alan waved him back down, shaking his head wearily. "No, please, finish your dinner, Larry. He's not going anywhere. He's going to the koi pond, and he'll be there when you're done."

Don stared at him, and then shot an uncertain look at the door. "How do you know that?" He had a vision of Charlie heading out for a walk on the darkening streets, and even though Morgan was in custody, the thought didn't sit well.

"Because the pond and the solarium are the only two places he goes, these days. Trust me, he'll be there."

They finished their meal quietly, the conversation subdued, and as soon as they were done, Larry carried his plate into the kitchen. "I think I'll step out and speak to him," he said, and he trotted out of the kitchen. Don peered through the window and the deepening dusk. He could just barely make out the slumped figure on the bench, and Larry's figure moving toward it.

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Larry sank onto the bench wordlessly, and glanced at his longtime friend. He hardly knew him anymore, it seemed; this morose, tortured person did not much resemble the lively young man Charlie once was. They sat in silence for a while, as the darkness settled around them like a thick blanket. He wasn't expecting Charlie to speak, so when he did, Larry started, and stared at him. Charlie had lifted his head and was gazing up at the stars. "I keep trying to get back there," he said softly. "I suppose you felt that way after your return to Earth."

Charlie was referring to Larry's trip on the space shuttle, Larry knew, although he wasn't quite sure what his friend's first sentence meant. He had an idea, though. "Yes, it was extremely difficult, the transition," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It was certainly a struggle getting reacclimated."

Charlie lowered his head and spoke softly to himself, repeating the word with a ghost of a smile, as if he approved of the word. "Reacclimated."

Larry continued as if he hadn't heard him. "I spent a good deal of time outside, looking heavenward, much as you're doing now, resisting the pull of the world around me. In fact, I remember spending some of my first nights back in your solarium. It is a lovely place to look at the stars."

He fell silent for a moment, musing; then continued, with a glance at Charlie. "It took a long time for me to realize that the pull is inevitable, and more than that, it is right, and necessary. You can't resist life itself, Charles. There is only one way to do that, and you don't want that – it is permanent. If you're alive, you must live, you must participate in the game."

Charlie stared at the reflection of the stars in the pond. One of the koi breached the surface and slid away underneath, leaving dark ripples that made the points of light waver and dance. "I don't want to," he whispered.

Larry's brow puckered with concern at the statement. "I know it's hard. It is undeniably difficult to come back." He sighed, and sat back with a wistful, reflective smile. "I did just as you are doing, sitting and reminiscing, sleeping in the solarium because I felt closer to the stars. I didn't want to come back either, but I did. You don't have to do it all at once; just take it one speck, one quark at a time." He patted the thin back awkwardly, wincing a little at the feel of a sharp shoulder blade. "I need to be getting home," he sighed. "Thank you for inviting me, and please, Charles, think about what I said."

He stood, looking at the silent slumped figure as if waiting for a response, and getting none, shook his head sadly and headed for the house.

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End Chapter 49


	50. Chapter 50

_A/N: Interesting comments - I will definitely use some of them..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 50**

Don saw Larry out, closed the front door, and headed for the kitchen. Once there, he opened the refrigerator and snagged two beers between the fingers of one hand. "My turn," he said, and headed for the kitchen door, ignoring Alan's doubtful expression.

It seemed pitch black in the yard after the bright lights of the kitchen, but he still caught Charlie's resentful glance as he plopped down on the bench. He leaned back and casually handed a beer to his brother, releasing it quickly so Charlie would have to grip it in order to keep it from falling. He'd already removed the top on the way out, taking away as many reasons as he could for Charlie to refuse it. "Nice night," he said, and took a swig of his own beer. It _was_ nice, actually, soft, and dark, and smelling of summer.

He felt Charlie's eyes on him, but ignored him, gazing complacently at the koi pond, and eventually felt the slight movement that told him Charlie was settling back on the bench beside him. He chanced a look sideways. "You missed a good dinner."

Charlie sat with the beer bottle balanced on his leg, clutching it with his right hand, his injured wrist on his other thigh. "I wasn't hungry."

"Look, Chuck, I know this is hard -,"

"You can save the speech. I just got it from Larry. He knows it's hard, you know it's hard, Amita knows it's hard. None of you know anything." Charlie's voice shook slightly, and his face was turned forward, his eyes fixed on the koi pond.

"Look, I'm sorry-,"

"I don't want you to be sorry," Charlie interrupted him. "I don't want anyone's sympathy. I just want to be left alone."

Don could feel impatience rising. "All I'm saying is that you need to take better care of yourself. You're still healing-,"

"I don't need anyone to tell me that, either."

"Apparently, you do. Look at yourself. You're a walking skeleton; all you do is sleep. I know you don't feel like it, but you have to build up your strength, take care of your physical needs if you're going to heal mentally. Dad is worried sick about you, and frankly, so am I."

Don's voice had risen, and he braced himself, expecting an argument, but Charlie just sat there, quietly staring at the koi pond. An awkward silence descended, and Don took a drink of his beer, trying to do something to fill it. The whisper was so quiet; he almost missed it.

"I'm scared."

Don turned and stared at him, wondering if he'd heard correctly, and tried to think of a response, but before he could say anything, Charlie continued, raising his voice to a half-whisper. "It's always there; he's always there, in my head. I can't get rid of him. Once in a while I'll forget for a second or two, but it always comes back, and when it does, it's even worse – it's like getting punched in the gut."

"Have you talked with Dr. Raine about it?"

"Not really," Charlie admitted. His voice sounded strained, and he was gripping the bottle of beer tightly. "We've been doing relaxation exercises. I can't stand to talk about it. I just want it to go away so badly – I feel as though I would do anything to make it go away. The last two nights…,"

His voice trailed off, and Don stared at him. "The last two nights, what?"

Charlie lifted the beer with a shaking hand and downed a healthy swallow. Just like that, the moment was over, the confession finished. Charlie had retreated again. "Nothing," he mumbled, "I've had a hard time sleeping; that's all."

A brief silence fell again, and Don racked his brains, trying to figure out how to open him up again. He said, "The trial starts two weeks from Monday, if that helps. Maybe once he's sentenced, you can put it behind you."

Charlie turned to look at him, but instead of appearing comforted, he looked terrified. "Two weeks! I – they – did they say – do I have to testify?"

"No," Don hastened to reassure him. "We've got a solid case. They'll use your statement and the video from your ID session. You don't have to do a thing, except work on getting well."

Charlie turned his face away again. More silence, and another drink of beer. After a moment, he spoke again. "I'm pretty tired," was all he said. "I think I'm going in."

He rose, swaying badly, and Don leapt to his feet and grabbed Charlie's arm. "Whoa there. See, you need to eat something, Charlie. Let's get some dinner in you."

It was as if all the fight had gone out of him. Charlie didn't try to shake off Don's arm, and let Don guide him back to the Craftsman, his steps slow and wobbly. Once there, however, he shuffled off for the solarium, beer still in hand, saying that it was too late; he'd eat in the morning. Don let him go, but he and Alan watched as Charlie crossed the room.

"How'd it go?" asked Alan softly, when Charlie was out of earshot.

Don rubbed his face. "I don't know," he said. "He's still pretty whacked out. Said he's had a hard time sleeping."

Alan frowned. "Actually, I would have said that's the one thing he has been doing. He's always sleeping."

"Maybe he sleeps during the day because he doesn't sleep well at night," Don offered.

"Maybe," replied Alan, doubtfully. "Although he has prescription sleeping pills – I thought he was taking them." He glanced at the clock. "He was right, it is getting late. Are you staying tonight?"

Don thought for a second. "No, I don't think so. Maybe I'll head up there, though, and tell him goodnight."

He made his way to the solarium. The door was slightly ajar, light spilling from the room, and he nudged it open, then stopped, his heart lurching. Charlie was standing, facing sideways to him and slightly away from the door, and he obviously hadn't seen him. He was holding a pill bottle with one hand, awkwardly because of the cast on his wrist, and the other hand was cupped. Even from the doorway, Don could see it held many more pills than it should. Charlie was staring at them, not moving, and Don caught his breath. "Charlie!"

Charlie started, his head jerking, his face flushing, and his hand closed reflexively over the pills. Don stared at him. "What are you doing?"

Charlie recovered himself, and began to feed pills back into the bottle from his clenched fist. "Getting a sleeping pill," he said crossly. "What do you want?"

Don blinked. "I – uh – just stopped up to say goodnight."

Charlie turned away from him, set the pill bottle deliberately on the end table next to his bed, capped it, and tossed down a pill, washing it down with a swig of warm beer. "Goodnight," he mumbled, as he set down the beer bottle and lowered himself onto the futon, pulling a comforter over his body. "Turn the light out, will you?"

Don hesitated for just a moment, then turned the switch off, and leaving the door slightly ajar, went back downstairs. Alan was straightening the scattered pages of a newspaper, and Don said, "You know, I think I'll stay tonight after all. I might stay up and catch the news."

Alan nodded, and headed for the stairs. "Good. We can tag team him in the morning, try to get him to eat some breakfast. I could use the support, if nothing else. Goodnight, Donnie."

"'Night, Dad." Don sank onto the sofa, clicked on the television, and stared at the screen, oblivious to the broadcast, fighting the pit of worry that settled in his stomach, and tightened it into a knot.

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Mac Johnson stumped down through the brush, holding his fishing pole up to keep the line from being snagged. The sun was just coming up over the horizon; it was going to be a nice morning. The small inlet in the Big Dalton Reservoir was his spot, and it was a good one. He always got lucky here; three days ago, he'd caught a lunker – a five-pound smallmouth. Now that he was retired, he could come whenever he wanted, and no one else seemed to know about it, other than him. He'd never seen anyone else there. That was about to change.

The ground started to dip as the bank approached the water, and he tread carefully through the tall grass, angling back into the slope of the earth, watching his feet. He didn't actually look at the water until he got right down to the edge, so he didn't see the body until he was close enough to touch it with his pole. He stared, blinked, and with a suddenly pounding heart, backed away up the slope.

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An hour later, Don half slid, half-jogged down the grassy bank to where Colby and David were standing, watching the crime scene techs lift the body from the water. He was still groggy; he'd gone to bed late, waiting until after Charlie was asleep, and sneaking up and into the room, taking the bottle of sleeping pills from the small table near the futon. He couldn't sleep until he'd assured himself the bottle was relatively full, and he hung onto it until morning, creeping back in to put it back on the table when he heard Alan get up for a shower. He'd stopped for just a moment, and watched Charlie, taking in the reassuring sight of his brother's chest, rising and falling, before tiptoeing out of the room. Shortly after that, he'd gotten the phone call, threw on a clean shirt, and headed to the reservoir.

"What do we have?"

The techs were turning the body carefully, and as the chest rolled into view, David made a face and indicated the body with a jerk of his head. It was nude, and bloated from the water. The chest and stomach area were stripped of skin, and the edges of the stripped area were fringed with the remnants of tissue, that floated and waved in the water like a strange type of seaweed. "Possible Flower Killer vic," he said. "The M.E. won't be sure until she does an analysis. It could just be decomposition, but except for the chest and abdomen, the rest of the skin is intact."

"Does she know how long it's been there?" asked Don, his face screwed in a slight grimace. "It looks pretty fresh."

Colby shook his head. "She says it might be tough to say. The reservoir's pretty cold at the bottom – if the body was down there and broke loose recently somehow, it could be as long as three or four weeks. If it was just dumped on the surface, it's probably been less than a week. If she found out it was recent, it would pretty much screw our case. Morgan's been in custody for almost three weeks."

"Maybe it's just decomposition," David said, half-heartedly. They stared at the body without replying; none of them believed that what they were looking at was the work of nature.

It wasn't. They gathered in the conference room later that day for a briefing – Don and the team, Wright, Lieutenant Walker and D.A. Phelps.

Liz gave them the report. "The M.E. found definite evidence of cuts," she said, "consistent with the Flower Killer M.O. The body was female, around forty, with a badly degenerated liver, and signs of malnutrition. Poor dental hygiene, missing teeth. Certainly a drunk, possibly homeless."

Phelps looked at her with tension in his face. "Could she date it?"

Liz shook her head. "Not very well. Judging by the decomposition, if the body had been at the bottom of the reservoir, it would have been like being in a refrigerator – it could have been as old as four weeks. If it had just been dumped and was exposed to air or warmer water, the decomp would be more indicative of a week."

Phelps shut his eyes, opened them again. "Parker will have a field day with this one."

"Not necessarily," said Walker, gruffly. "We had reports of homeless people going missing for a couple of weeks, and the timing fits with the date we figured Morgan arrived here after leaving Denver. There were no additional reports of missing people after he was taken into custody."

Phelps nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, we could make that point, I suppose." He sighed. "I was hoping for a clincher, but it looks like this one's going to be a wash. We'll have to submit this new evidence; otherwise, we'll proceed with our game plan." He shot a brief glance at Don, just a flicker, but Don caught his meaning. Phelps still wasn't going to require Charlie's testimony. Don nodded back, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

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Amita knocked on the door, in a flurry of anticipation. It had been odd to go back to knocking, after months of coming and going at will with her own key. Of course, it had been awkward to retrieve her things, too, the spare clothes and toiletries she'd kept at the Craftsman. She'd come to get them while he was still in the hospital, hoping someday she'd get a chance to return them, that she'd be let in again, to Charlie's house, and to Charlie's heart. She approached her daily visits with just a bit of trepidation; they weren't making much headway, and Charlie was barely communicative. Today, though, was different; she had something exciting to discuss.

Alan opened the door, as always, his face tired, but as always, it wreathed itself in a smile when he saw her. Even if she hadn't made much of an impact on Charlie, her dogged patience with him, her consistent presence, had made an impression on Alan. She was starting to win him back, she knew. "Hi, Alan."

"Amita. Come in. Charlie's right here." He stepped back, indicating the sofa, and she could see the head of tousled curls, a thin shoulder, over the back of it.

Alan left them and headed for the kitchen; he wasn't dressed for work that day. He had started going in to the office in the afternoons that week, and Amita knew he was glad she stopped by during her lunch hour; it was one hour less that Charlie was alone. Today though, Alan must have decided to stay home. The thoughts tumbled through her head absently as she sank onto the sofa and looked at Charlie, her eyes sparkling. She held out a sheaf of papers, as he murmured a quiet hello. "Charlie, do you know what these are?"

His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at them. He recognized his own handwriting, but couldn't place them. He shook his head.

"When you were in the hospital, before you were talking, Dr. Raine asked you to write down what was in your head. They saved the papers, and Don asked me to look at them so they could try to figure out what you were thinking. Before I could, you – came back, you woke up. I happened to look through them last night." She started leafing through them, eagerly, and pulled out a section, handing them to him. "There are several different analyses in here, but two of them – well, they're breakthrough work, Charlie." She scooted closer to him and pointed to some equations on the page he was holding. "Look at that – both of these are publishable, and that one – well, you could probably make a good deal of money on it if you wanted to develop it – it has implications for solving some difficulties with particle colliders."

Charlie had taken the papers with a dull, disinterested expression, but as she talked, he began to frown slightly with concentration, his attention captured by the figures on the page. Both of them were so intent on the work they didn't notice they were cheek to cheek, their heads nearly touching, until Charlie turned to look at her. The faint astonishment on his face faded as he realized the closeness of her; she realized it at the same moment, and they froze, gazing into each other's eyes. She could feel his breath on her lips, and her heart pounded, he was going to kiss her…

"Hello?" A light knock sounded at the door, and they separated with a jerk, guiltily, Amita's heart twisting with annoyance and disappointment. Her expression turned even more sour as she took in the figure at the door.

"I'm sorry, the door was open a bit," said Jill Cash, as she stepped in, "I hope you don't mind."

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End Chapter 50


	51. Chapter 51

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 51**

Alan's eyes wandered to the window above the kitchen sink again, and rested on the two figures out by the koi pond, sitting in the warm glow of early evening. The spiky dark hair was a nice complement to Charlie's dark curls, he decided. Jill was wearing skinny jeans, a blousy top with a scooped neck, and Converse sneakers, a funky, fun outfit that fit her personality. She was a little too thin for Alan's taste, and a bit taller than Charlie was, but she had an angular grace to her, and green eyes that sparked with irresistible mischief. She was smart enough to realize Amita tended to visit at lunchtime, and so she began showing up at the end of the workday. His son, the quiet mathematician, the geeky one, had two gorgeous women after him, and could appear to care less. Alan sighed and shook his head at the vagaries of fate.

Jill had appeared the week before, sent down to help with the case and to prepare her own testimony with the D.A. in the two weeks before the trial. Because Mike Shire had retired from the Bureau, she was representing the Seattle office, and would testify to their findings of the murders there. She planned to stay in L.A. during the trial itself, and she had told Alan Mike Shire was going to be there too, along with the families of other victims. The trial was being held in L.A., and although the metropolis had the most sizable federal courthouse of any of the cities where the murders occurred, it was going to be packed, the family members and reporters and security and legal staff jammed in like sardines. The event was now only three days away, and although Charlie wasn't planning to attend, Alan could see the knowledge of that weighing on him.

In some ways, he seemed to be doing a bit better. Dr. Raine had reported a little more progress in their sessions; Charlie was slowly starting to open up, but it came at a price. He'd worked hard at trying to suppress the feelings, the memories, and as they started to bubble to the surface, he'd had to deal with the fear, the pain, the horror, all over again. Nightmares had started; Dr. Raine had doubled Charlie's dose of sleeping medication, but it hadn't seemed to help; he'd gone from sleeping constantly to not sleeping at all, and was hollow-eyed and jittery. He wasn't eating much better either, well, perhaps a bit, but it was more than offset by a nervous energy, which had finally driven Charlie out to his chalkboards in the garage. Alan didn't know whether to be thankful for that or not. It was probably good that his son was at least taking an interest in math again, but the manic absorption reminded Alan of P vs. NP, and that reminded him of Charlie's recent catatonic retreat. He didn't know if the change was good, or if it heralded a breakdown.

The girls seemed to be good for him, a calming influence, although Alan could tell that neither of them would be content to be strung along forever. He eyed the couple absently out of the window as he polished a pot with a dishtowel, and wondered if Charlie realized that. Even if he did, Alan thought, he probably didn't have the strength to deal with it right now, to make any kind of decision. He glanced down, realized he'd been drying the same pot for at least five minutes, and sighed.

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Sunday morning, Robin lay on her side, with her head propped on her elbow, idly tracing a finger along the scar on Don's ribcage. It was healing, a thin line now, but it hadn't faded yet, and it stood out, purple, against his skin. He blinked awake and stirred, and his face creased in a smile, something she hadn't seen in a long time. He'd been at Charlie's house nearly every night during the past few weeks, and she knew why. She also knew he felt guilty over not being with her, and she knew too, that with the trial approaching, his free time was going to get even tighter. In the early days of their relationship, when they were first dating, she would have been miffed about that, but now, somehow, it was different. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, maybe it was the fact that she knew she had his heart, maybe it was simply the revelation that underneath the tough exterior, he was a good man who cared about his family, and those close to him. No matter what the reason, she was content to ride through this, as long as she was by his side, as long as it was her arms he came to when he had the chance.

"I'm going to church," she said softly. "Want to come?" He normally didn't go, and really didn't even profess a religion, just a shaky association with his Jewish heritage, but he'd come along willingly enough when she asked him two weeks ago, and had seemed to get something out of the service.

He sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "I don't think I can," he said. "I've got a meeting at nine with Wright and the D.A."

She could see the guilt in his face, and she wanted to wash it away. He'd been through enough in the last weeks, enough pain, enough guilt. "It's okay," she assured him. "You guys need to be ready. Nothing else matters right now."

He gave her a grateful look, pulled her close, and caressed her neck with his lips. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispered, and she felt a warmth spread through her soul.

She drew back and gave him a teasing smile. "And don't you forget it," she said. He opened his mouth to speak, guilt spreading across his face again, but she cut him off with a raised finger. "Don't even say it – I know; you'll be at Charlie's tonight. It's okay – that's where you should be. I'm grateful I got you last night."

Don grinned at her, wickedly. "Not nearly as grateful as I was."

She swatted him playfully and rose from the bed, slipping into a silky robe. "Bad boy. You _should_ go to church." He watched her, smiling, as she swept gracefully into the bathroom, and then, as the realization of what was looming before them crept into his mind, the smile faded. They _had_ to get Morgan – he didn't even want to think about the implications for Charlie, for other innocent victims, if the monster went free. But they were going to get him, he told himself – they had an irrefutable case, after all. Open and shut. Piece of cake.

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Don stood in the doorway of the garage and watched as Charlie darted from one chalkboard to another, frantically scribbling here, checking an equation there. He was waiting for a break in the action, but there didn't seem to be one, so he stepped forward. He'd intended to speak to announce his presence, but Charlie caught the movement out of the corner of his eye first, and swung around, his eyes dark, large with surprise, and a hint of panic. "Hey, it's just me," Don said, raising a hand.

Charlie stared at him a moment with glazed eyes that reminded Don uncomfortably of his time in the hospital, and then seemed to shake himself, and blinked. He was breathing quickly, but it slowed a bit as he turned back to the chalkboard and set the chalk down in the tray. His hand was shaking.

Don moved toward him, jerking his head toward the sofa. "Here, chill a little, okay? It's almost dinnertime. Sit with me a minute – I could use the company."

Charlie stared at him for a moment; then blinked again. "Okay -," he looked at the chalkboard, with longing; then back at Don, "yeah – I can do that, I guess." He turned and headed for the battered sofa, and flopped down on it, and Don went and sat beside him, his eyes narrowed. Charlie was conversing, but his mannerisms were disjointed, his eyes not quite focused.

"You okay?" Don asked quietly.

"Trial's tomorrow," Charlie answered matter-of-factly, almost cheerfully, and tented his fingers, stretching his arms. The answer didn't fit the question; the actions were too laid back for the topic. The inappropriateness made Don's gut twist with uneasiness.

"Yeah, it is," he said softly. "We're gonna get him, Charlie, you know that."

Charlie nodded, staring at the chalkboard. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again; his face seemed to collapse along with the brittle façade, and he ran a hand over it. When he lifted his head again, it looked as though he was fighting tears, and he turned to Don, with a plea in his face, wordless, just the way he had looked when he finally came out of his catatonic state, under the tree in the garden of the hospital. The look that asked '_why,_' that said, '_help me,_' that screamed, '_it hurts_,' all the more eloquent because it was wordless.

That look hit Don like a javelin to the heart, and he put an arm around Charlie and pulled him close, Charlie leaning against him as if he had no strength. "What happens if we don't?" Charlie asked in a soft and shaking voice. "All those people, those women -," his voice cracked, and he held a trembling hand over his eyes.

"That's not an option." Don's voice was soft but firm. "He's going away. You can count on it." He paused for a moment, waiting while Charlie composed himself, easing his grip around the thin shoulders as his brother straightened in the seat, trying to swallow away the moisture in his eyes. "I know we talked about this, but I was going to ask you one more time – if you want to attend tomorrow I need to tell them to reserve another seat. It's going to be pretty packed. If you're going, I'll sit with you in the section they reserved for the victims' families."

Charlie looked up at him, uncertainly, and looked away. "I – I don't think so," he said haltingly. "I know I should, but…"

"There are no 'shoulds' or 'shouldn'ts' about it, Charlie. It's understandable if you don't want to go."

Charlie took in a deep breath, and let it out unevenly. "Okay," he said, "I think I'll just stay home."

Don gave him another squeeze around the shoulders. "Come on," he said. "Dad's got dinner ready."

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The federal courthouse was a mob scene, and Don was devoutly grateful that Charlie had stayed home. North Spring Street was choked with reporters, although most of them had no pass for the courtroom, and had to be content with reporting the comings and goings of the players. Those lucky enough to get in had to settle for recording the proceedings in writing; the judge had disallowed cameras of any kind.

Since Charlie wasn't there, Don sat with the law enforcement group, including Wright and his team, and Jill Cash. Alan had opted to stay home with Charlie, but when Don glanced over at the section reserved for families of victims, he saw with surprise that Amita and Larry were sitting there. He wondered how they'd managed to get seats - not being family, someone would have had to have pulled some strings to get them spots, and they hadn't asked him. Even as the thought occurred to him, he knew the answer. He looked sideways at Megan, and she smiled at him; she'd seen his glance, and knew what he was thinking. He gave her a slight nod of appreciation, and then rose to his feet at the bailiff's request.

Judge Armando Vasquez was an imposing man, dignified, broad-shouldered, his Hispanic features classically handsome, the gray at his temples lending an aristocracy to his face. He ran a strict courtroom, was regarded as highly intelligent, and leaned toward the conservative side. Don couldn't think of a better judge to get the case other than Judge Wilson, and he was out of the running because Cookie Meyers had worked for him. Judge Wilson was there, however, sitting with the observers; his huge frame taking a little more than his allotted share of a seat, his African-American features composed in a stern expression and his dark eyes on Ryan Morgan, who sat in the front on the defense side.

Morgan was wearing a conservative suit, not expensive, but neat looking; he was dressing the part of the poor, simple janitor, wrongly accused. Don had no doubt his wardrobe choice had been dictated by Randall Lee Parker, who had insisted that a prison jumpsuit predisposed the jury to decide against a man, and had insisted his client be allowed to dress in street clothes for court. He had also insisted that Morgan's leg irons be removed prior to entering the room, although no one would agree to the removal of his handcuffs. A middle-aged, well-dressed couple sat behind him; Morgan's parents, no doubt. Morgan turned his head to speak to his mother, and Don caught his profile; the very presence of the man stirred hate in his gut, and he tensed, and realizing his hands were balled into fists, released them.

Judge Vasquez requested them to be seated, and Roger Phelps rose to give the prosecution's opening statement. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, facing the jurors, "you are being called on to observe and pass judgment on the perpetrator of some of the most heinous crimes in the history of this nation. The United States government has brought charges against the defendant, Ryan Morgan, for murder, rape, torture, and kidnapping, among other things. The charges are many, as were his victims. The federal government has compiled a long list of evidence that points irrefutably to the fact that this man, Ryan Morgan, is the person who has come to be known as the Flower Killer."

He continued, elaborating on the list of known victims, calling out some of the details of the evidence that the government planned to present, including DNA evidence, and leaving the impression that the government had truckloads of proof, far more than they needed to convict. He took his time, outlining each crime and the evidence associated with it, including the fact that they had a survivor who had positively identified Ryan Morgan as the killer. As Phelps outlined Charlie's role in the proceedings, some of the jurors' eyes wandered curiously over to the gallery, looking for the man who had lived through the ordeal. Phelps' eyes caught Don's, briefly; Don knew he was thinking it would have been good for Charlie to be there; his appearance alone would have generated a sympathetic response from the jurors.

Phelps' opening statement took most of the morning; he'd planned it that way, giving as much detail as he could, to give the jurors a sense of the vast amount of evidence that they had. The judge recessed the court for lunch, and Don stepped out into the corridor, taking in a deep breath. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until he got outside; the atmosphere in the courtroom was charged, electric, heavy with dark emotions. All too soon, lunch break was over, and they filed back in for the opening statement of the defense.

Randall Lee Parker rose smoothly to his feet. He was a moderately good-looking man, a little on the fleshy side, with a disarming hint of a Southern accent and engaging eyes, which he turned on for the jury, sporting a conspiratorial twinkle as if he were sharing a private joke, just between them. That twinkle hid legendary shrewdness, and a ruthlessness in court that had won Parker many notable cases. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he addressed them in the same way as Phelps, "you've heard quite a bit this morning, haven't you? Quite an earful. My esteemed colleague, Mr. Phelps, has put together an elaborate case, filled with facts – he has done a wonderful job, don't you think?" He smiled, his tone dripping with condescension. Don frowned. The entire courtroom was looking at Parker curiously, wondering where he was going with his speech, which seemed to be supporting the prosecution.

Parker sauntered away from the jury, addressing the court. "No, there's no doubt in my mind, they have put together a hell of case against the notorious Flower Killer. There's just one small problem." He swiveled and faced the jury again, his smile disappearing, freezing dramatically, intensity in his eyes. "They've brought that case against the wrong man."

He straightened, relaxed, and began pacing again. "Oh, I feel for them, for the FBI. They've had a hard time with this one, so many victims, a lot of press, a lot of public pressure to bring the killer to justice. I know they've wanted to get this case off their backs for a long time." His gaze flickered over Don's face, and Don tried hard not to let the anger simmering inside show in his expression. "No one has wanted it worse than the lead agent, Special Agent Don Eppes. With that kind of pressure, and considering the scene with which he was faced when he came upon his brother, the victim of a horrible attack, it is quite understandable that he jumped to conclusions. Understandable, but unforgivable."

He turned in his pacing, looked directly at Don with narrowed eyes, then strode forward, snatched two 8x10 photos from his table and presented them to the jury with a flourish. The lead juror took them and examined them, frowning, and passed them to the next juror. "Those are pictures of my client, before and after a vicious attack by Agent Eppes. A young man with stars in his eyes, working hard as a janitor, following his dream, trying to make it in Hollywood. You can see by the photo, by his appearance, that those dreams are shattered, now, destroyed by Agent Eppes' brutal attack."

"The agent, you will see, is a loose cannon, an unpredictable and vindictive man, and unfortunately, headed the investigation. And he is not alone in this – the Bureau itself, so desperate to put an end to the horrible killings, so frantic to still the public outcry concerning their bungling of this case, seized on my client as a scapegoat. Their evidence is contrived. Nearly all of it, including the DNA results, is circumstantial, and perhaps, is even the result of evidence tampering. You must remember one thing, and I am sure that Judge Vasquez has already advised you of it. My client does not have to prove his innocence; the prosecution must prove his guilt, beyond a shadow of a doubt. And by the end of this case, I guarantee, you will have many doubts, indeed. You _will _find my client not guilty." He gave them a nod, swiveled smartly about, and strode for his desk, amid murmurings in the court.

Don found himself gripping the arms of his chair; it had been all he could do to stay composed, to keep from jumping to his feet and looking like the impulsive figure that Parker had painted. He looked to his right, to see Wright and Phelps with heads together, conversing quietly, their faces grim. They now knew Parker's line of defense, and worse, they knew that Parker, if anyone, was capable of pulling it off.

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End Chapter 51

_A/N: Next chapter - the readers have spoken - Amita vs. Jill, and the prosecution has a decision to make. _


	52. Chapter 52

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, gang - they are so much appreciated, and spur me on._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 52**

Alan heard cars doors slamming, and he looked out of the kitchen window to see Colby and David strolling into the back yard, making their way toward Charlie. He'd told Don to invite the team over after the day's proceedings, and he'd invited Larry and Amita himself. He knew Charlie was anxious for news of the trial, and he felt an instinctive need for the group to bond together during the tension-filled ordeal. Megan and Larry appeared in the yard also, and then he heard the door to the dining room push open behind him. 'Hey, Dad."

Alan turned, searching Don's face. "Donnie. How'd it go today?"

Don shrugged, his face impassive, but his eyes didn't meet his father's. "Okay. Opening statements took up most of it." He headed toward the refrigerator and opened it, scanning the contents.

"Beer's in a cooler outside," said Alan. He glanced out the window again, Colby and David had their jackets off already, ties loosened, and were talking to Charlie, who was looking at them anxiously. Jill and Liz were walking into the yard, along with Mike Shire. He turned back to Don. "So – it didn't go so well, then."

Don scowled, sighed, and dropped the pretense. "No. That asshole Parker started by accusing the Bureau of falsifying evidence. He called me a loose cannon, insinuated I purposely disfigured Morgan, and claimed that we're trying the wrong man."

"So, that's all just posturing, right?" said Alan heartily. "You've got a solid case."

"We do," admitted Don. "Although Randall Lee Parker can make a brick wall look like Swiss cheese. And he's right; a lot of our evidence is circumstantial. The DNA stuff is hard to get around, but if he can cast doubt on it – either by saying we screwed up on the handling, or by saying the presence of Morgan's DNA doesn't necessarily mean he was in a spot at the time of the murder – well, I don't know. He doesn't need to prove anything – all he has to do is cast doubt. If he can make them doubt any of that, it all boils down to one thing – Charlie's testimony." He looked at Alan. "This isn't exactly classified information – you could have heard it yourself if you'd gone today – but if you run across any media types, don't offer any of this, or any opinion."

Alan grunted. "I don't think I'll be running into any media here."

Don's face twisted wryly. "Don't count on it. It was crazy down at the courthouse today, and they're all looking for an angle. We've got an officer posted on the street, and he's already chased away two reporters."

Alan frowned, and looked out the window into the back yard again. Amita had appeared and was standing with Larry and Megan on the other side of the yard, as far away as she could get from Jill Cash. "Charlie was as nervous as a cat today; he spent the whole day pacing in front of the television set, flicking through the channels, looking for updates."

Don's eyes followed his out the window, in time to see Susan Raine enter the backyard. He raised his eyebrows, and looked at Alan. "Charlie invited his therapist?"

Alan flushed a little. "Actually, I did – I asked him first. He was okay with it."

Don stared at him, taking in his flustered appearance, and then grinned. "I thought you two seemed a little chummy at the hospital."

"We're just friends," Alan said firmly. "She's made it clear she won't enter into a relationship with a member of a patient's family, not that I asked her. She's just – an interesting person. Plus, she wanted a chance to see how Charlie was interacting with others."

Don gave him a skeptical look, but took pity on him and dropped the subject, and glanced out the window at Charlie. "Don't tell him what I just said to you – I told my team to sound upbeat when they talked to him. It's way too early to tell anything, anyway."

Alan looked back at him, anxiously. "You know, I noticed the officer on the street the other day, and I meant to ask you about that. Why is he there? You do think Morgan's the killer, right?"

Don nodded; his eyes steady. "Yeah, I was convinced the minute Charlie ID'd him. We think Morgan's a loner and has been operating by himself, but we can't be too careful." Alan paled at the thought of an accomplice, and Don hastened to reassure him. "Mostly though, it's to keep the press at a distance. This is going to get pretty nuts, Dad, make no mistake." He glanced out the window. "I'm gonna head out."

Alan turned and handed him a platter of uncooked hamburger patties. "Here, make yourself useful and bring these out to the grill. I'll be right out."

"Thanks for doing this, Dad – it was a great idea, good for morale. The team really appreciates it – I can reimburse you - ,"

"Nonsense," scoffed Alan. "They aren't team, they're family. And anyway, I think it's good for Charlie. He needs to come out of his shell, starting dealing with people again, and it's best if he does that with friends, don't you think?"

Don glanced out the window again, and saw Charlie making his way – alone – to the koi pond. Apparently, even socializing with friends was a bit too much for him, at this point. "Yeah," he said quietly. "You're probably right."

…………………………………………………

Jill Cash made her way across the back yard, to the solitary figure on the bench near the pond. After talking with Colby and David, Charlie had separated himself from the group, and had gone to sit by himself. The rest of them were chatting easily, drifting around the yard, and Jill figured none of them had noticed that he was sitting alone. She was wrong, she realized; as she began to walk toward him, she saw Amita's eyes following her.

Charlie saw her, and stood as she approached. He looked tired, and the beer hanging from his hand was still nearly full; he was apparently only holding it for appearances. "Hey," she said brightly. "How are you doing?"

He offered her just a wisp of a smile. "All right. I heard it went okay today."

She nodded. "Yeah, okay. Parker spouted some bull, but nothing more than we would have expected. They just did opening statements, pretty much, then Phelps entered some stuff into evidence to prepare for tomorrow." She made light of it, purposely, she would have even if she hadn't gotten the lecture from Don.

"That's what Don said." His eyes drifted over her shoulder, and she glanced backward. Amita. He was looking at Amita. She sighed. She was never one to beat around the bush, and she had to know.

"Are you two – uh, serious?"

"What?" Charlie looked confused, and Jill realized he didn't know she'd seen his glance at Amita – they'd been talking about Don.

"Amita. I saw the way you looked at her – you really like her, don't you?"

Charlie's gaze traveled back to Amita, and then he looked down at the koi pond, and sighed. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I don't know where it's going, though."

Jill fought the urge to shoot another glance over her shoulder, and felt a little glimmer of hope. "Oh, yeah?" she said casually. "Why's that?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "We've been dating for a couple of years, and were getting pretty serious, or at least I thought so, but she met a guy when she was over in India – she said it was nothing; that he didn't mean anything, but…I think she's still here because of what happened to me. I think when things are back to normal, and I'm on my feet – well, I just don't know if she'll stick around."

Jill felt her heart drop. So that was the story. The boy might be a genius, she thought, but when it came to reading women, he needed remedial classes. There was no doubt in her mind that Amita was serious about him; it was _his_ feelings for Amita that had made Jill wonder. Now she knew – Charlie did care about Amita, deeply. Jill had walked into what now appeared to be a long-term serious relationship, and had misread the signs. As disheartening as that was, she cared too much for Charlie to stand in the way of something that might help heal him, if he'd let it. She swallowed hard. "I think you couldn't be farther from the truth," she said.

Charlie looked at her, skepticism on his face, and she continued. "Look, I'm shooting myself in the foot, here, because to be honest, I was interested in you myself."

If the situation wasn't so damned disappointing, she might have laughed at the dumb look of surprise on his face. As it was, she smiled ruefully, and shook her head. He really was clueless. "I wouldn't worry – I think it's pretty obvious how she feels about you. If you don't give her a chance, I'd say you're nuts." She felt a bit of moisture creeping into her eyes – damn it – and she smiled bravely. "But if it shouldn't work out for some reason, look me up. And in the meantime, I'm hoping we can be friends."

"I'm sorry," he stammered, "I didn't realize -," but she cut him off by leaning forward, then gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, and walked away, her head held high. Cheeks flaming, eyes bright with emotion, she went to stand next to Mike Shire, who was keeping Alan company at the grill. Mike was standing in front of the cooler, and looked at her quizzically as she approached. "Hey, Mike," she said softly, smiling through gritted teeth, "fish me out a beer, will you? I think I need one."

………………………………

Don saw Jill Cash walk away from Charlie, and was about to extricate himself from a conversation with Colby and David and go talk to him, when the sound of car doors slamming out on the street brought his head around. From where Colby was standing, he could see around the corner of the house, and he looked at Don and said, "You invited Wright and Phelps?"

Don frowned. "No." He felt his stomach tighten – Wright and Phelps had no idea that Don and his team would be here, and so that meant one thing – they were here to talk to Charlie. He moved around Colby and intercepted the men as they came around the house, like a one-man welcoming committee – only without the welcome. "Gentlemen. Can I help you?" He planted himself squarely in front of them, effectively stalling their progress, his casual grip on his beer at odds with the obstinate set of his shoulders. They'd planned to corner his brother, alone, without him here, he realized, and the thought made him angry.

They exchanged a glance, and Wright spoke. "Actually, I'm glad you're here, Don. We don't want to interrupt the party -,"

"It's no problem," said Alan, amiably, strolling up in his apron. "It's not a party – just a little morale-booster. You're welcome to stay."

'_Shut up, Dad_,' Don thought, with a tight polite smile. '_They're not here on a social call._' He glanced nervously at Charlie, who was heading their direction, his eyes dark with apprehension. The rest of the group was also starting to congregate around them, drifting forward to hear the conversation.

Phelps cut straight to the point. "The A.D. and I have been having a discussion. In spite of the amount of evidence we have, we think this trial is going to rely heavily on show and appearances – Parker is going to take it there, whether we want him to, or not. We need to do our best to counter."

Charlie had joined the group as he spoke. Everyone knew what was coming, and they glanced at Charlie – everyone but Alan, who appeared puzzled, and Susan Raine, who was staring at Phelps and Wright suspiciously. Phelps continued. "We need Charlie in the courtroom. We think his appearance alone will do a lot to generate sympathy from the jurors."

Alan's smile faded, and Don spoke up sharply. "And I think we can do without that."

Wright looked at Don sternly. "That's not your call, and it's not all. We need him to testify."

Charlie had turned pale, and Amita instinctively moved to his side. Without looking at her, his hand found hers, almost absently. The contact seemed to give him some strength, and he straightened. She felt a rush of relief that he even sought her hand, but it was dampened by the realization that he was trembling.

The thought terrified him, but Charlie had suspected it might be coming. As he watched them exchange glares, he thought, '_At least they could have the courtesy to ask me_.' "I'm right here," he managed. No one looked at him.

Susan Raine spoke up, addressing Wright, her jaw set stubbornly. "And I say he's in no condition to handle that yet."

Wright frowned at her. "If he doesn't, we run the risk of this maniac getting off. I think it's in your patient's best interest to pre-empt that, don't you?"

Amita glanced at Charlie, worriedly. He looked stunned, almost in shock, but he managed to find his voice. "It's okay, I'll do it."

"I don't buy it," Don said, ignoring him. "We just started the trial – we don't even know how it will play out yet."

"I'll do it," insisted Charlie.

"I'll tell you how it will play out," Phelps said to Don, with irritation. "Did you see the look on the jury's face today? Parker's already got them eating out of his hand." He went on, but his voice was lost in a cacophony of arguments, as Don, Susan Raine, and Alan all chimed in at once, and Wright joined the fray.

"SHUT UP!" Charlie's voice rose above the din, the group stopped, open mouthed, and stared at him, and he looked back at them. He appeared terrified, but he spoke resolutely. "I _said_, I'll do it. Excuse me."

He put his head down and made for the house on unsteady legs, and the group watched him go, except for Alan, who hurried after him. Charlie fumbled for the knob and made it into the kitchen, and knew then he wasn't going to make it. He grabbed the trashcan and vomited, heaving several times, and finally backed away from the receptacle, swaying; then his knees buckled and he went down hard on them, barely feeling Alan's comforting hand on his shoulder.

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End Chapter 52


	53. Chapter 53

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 53**

Don knew the minute they drove up to the courthouse it was going to be bad. He'd had Liz drive his SUV, with himself, Charlie, Colby and David as passengers. Megan had stayed behind at the office to manage the ongoing caseload; life didn't stop because there was a trial.

The plan was for Liz to drop them as close to the entrance as possible and to go park the vehicle, while Don, Colby and David surrounded Charlie, running a block to get him through the reporters. Wright, to his credit, agreed to help by holding an impromptu press statement on the other side of the courthouse steps just as Charlie arrived, to draw the reporters away. Unfortunately, when it came to the media, sensation won over substance every time. No two-bit actor was ever upstaged as effectively as Wright was; the minute Charlie stepped out of the vehicle, the throng of reporters swarmed toward him.

Don grabbed his arm and spoke tersely. "Whatever you do, Charlie, don't stop moving. Stay right on Colby's heels."

Charlie nodded, and put his head down; trotting behind Colby's broad back up the steps, while Don and David took up positions on either side of him. They moved through the sea of reporters, who had surged around them, clamoring, microphones extended. Cameramen moved in, top-heavy with equipment, dancing awkwardly, all of them shifting, backing off, backing into each other, and re-maneuvering, as Colby barged relentlessly through them, like a Pamplona bull.

Inside, Phelps watched the live feed from one of the news stations on the television in the office provided for the prosecution, and nodded approvingly. It was the first time the cameras had managed to catch the lone survivor on television, and already, Charles Eppes was a media darling. His youthful, vulnerable appearance, his quiet good looks, his status as an accomplished genius would appeal to the audience, would appeal to the jury. As long as Dr. Eppes could hold it together, he would be a huge plus. If he couldn't, it would be disastrous. Phelps hadn't made the decision to bring him into this lightly; he knew the stakes. If he could, he was still going to try to avoid putting the doctor on the stand. They had to start preparing him; however, and the time he would spend in the courtroom observing was part of that. They needed to be ready, just in case…

Inside, Don hurried Charlie through the metal detectors, and into the relative quiet of the hallways. There were still several reporters inside; however, those who had been granted access to the courtroom, and Colby didn't stop his charge until they made it into the prosecutor's office. As the door closed behind them, they all drew a breath of relief, and Charlie stared back at Don, wide-eyed. "Wow," was all he could manage.

"You'd better get used to it," said Phelps, dryly, coming around from behind his desk, extending a hand. "You're a celebrity now, whether you like it or not."

Charlie shook his hand and muttered, "Not." He was breathing a little heavily, and his jacket, although well tailored and a perfect choice, hung on his thin frame. He was obviously still recovering physically from his ordeal, Phelps realized.

"We have an hour before we start," he said to Charlie. "I'm not entirely certain I am going to put you on the stand yet," – he caught the surprised, hopeful look on Don Eppes' face – "but we have to be prepared in case I do. We'll go over your possible testimony when we get the chance, like now. I may have to spend some time at your home in the evenings, also."

"Of course," Charlie said quietly.

Don glanced at him speculatively. Charlie seemed to be holding together fairly well, but he hadn't had to face Morgan yet. He hoped his brother would manage to keep his composure in the courtroom.

"All right, then," said Phelps, glancing at his watch, "let's get going."

……………………………………………

The questioning didn't help, Charlie decided. The hour spent with Phelps only served to make him more terrified. Phelps questioned him as he thought Parker would, pulling no punches. As if it wasn't hard enough to talk about it – Charlie had barely managed to speak of the events in detail with his therapist, and to have to go through it with Phelps was far tougher. It helped that he'd been through it with Don, Colby and Megan, but David had never heard it firsthand, and the look on his face as he heard the story from Charlie's lips didn't help either – it reinforced the suspicion that it was as terrible as Charlie thought it was. And they hadn't even gotten through the bulk of the testimony yet – Charlie realized he had hours of preparation ahead of him, just to get through it all with Phelps. By the time they were called to go into the courtroom, Charlie was thoroughly rattled, and as he walked down the hallway, he could feel his knees begin to wobble, his breath start to shorten. _He_ was going to be in there. _He_ was going to be in there. _He _-

Charlie jumped as he felt a heavy hand on the back of his neck, and turned a little wildly, only to realize it was Don's hand, that his brother was looking at him, smiling reassuringly, but with concern in his dark eyes. Liz had appeared beside him too – she was smiling at him, also, and gave him a light pat on the arm. Charlie looked up – the doors were in front of them now, opening…

A buzz began in the courtroom, crescendoing as Charlie came through the door, but he couldn't hear it, couldn't feel a thing except the panic that coursed through his veins as he caught sight of Morgan. The killer and his attorney, Parker, were staring at him from their seats at the front of the room, and Charlie wrenched his eyes away as Don steered him gently down a row. He managed to get his rear end planted on a seat, and felt Don's hand on his back. "You okay?" Don whispered, but all Charlie could do was look at him. Over Don's shoulder, he could see his father, seated in the victims' family section across the aisle, watching him with concern.

A voice from the front of the room commanded them to rise, and somehow Charlie got to his feet, standing on unsteady legs, sinking back down robotically when Don did. He closed his eyes, but immediately garish memories flooded his mind, and he opened them again. He was never going to make it through a whole day of this – and testifying – how on earth would he manage that? What in God's name had he been thinking? He swallowed bile, fought back the roaring in his ears.

"Take a deep breath," Don whispered, as Phelps got up and began to talk. "That's it Buddy, just breathe..."

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Several hours later, Charlie sat slumped in a chair in the prosecutor's office, his eyes closed, while the agents, Wright, Phelps and his staff reviewed the day's testimony.

"Parker entered that last mailing from Courier Express as evidence," said one of Phelps' assistants. "The 'dead bird' one. What's with that?"

"He's going to say it was mailed after his client was already in custody," said Wright grimly. He looked at Don, who had shot an anxious look at Charlie to see if the 'dead bird' comment had disturbed him. Apparently, Charlie had already been disturbed to the point of being numb, because he didn't respond; he sat motionless, his eyes still closed. He looked exhausted, drained.

Wright continued. "Marcy said someone there verified that the note was dropped off the evening before, correct?"

At Don's nod, Phelps added, "We need to find out who she talked to; we may need them to testify in rebuttal."

"I'll take that one," said David, quietly.

"Okay," said Phelps. "We had a full day of lab testimony today, of findings at the various murder and kidnapping sites. I tried to get a read on the jury when Parker cross-examined. He was trying to throw doubt on the DNA findings, but I'm not sure if he got it across or not. We've got more of the same for tomorrow and the next day, and I think we're pretty well prepared for that. After that, we've got Jill Cash up for the Seattle connection, and then McKelvey from Denver, the M.E. on the body from the reservoir, and then you, Don. I think we can call it a wrap for today."

As the group stood, Phelps pulled Don aside, and indicated Charlie with a jerk of his head. "I need to spend a couple hours with him tonight. I'll give him a chance to rest first."

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Don doubtfully, looking at Charlie.

"I don't really have a choice," said Phelps softly. "McKelvey's coming in tomorrow; I'm going over his testimony with him tomorrow night. After that, we only have three more evenings, and Charlie has a lot of ground to cover. Do you really want him up on the stand with Parker, unprepared?"

"I thought you said you might not need him," Don hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

"I don't know, yet," replied Phelps. "But we've got to be ready, and I can't get him prepared in one night."

Don's cell phone rang, and he flipped it open and answered. "Yeah, Liz, okay, we're coming out." He shut the phone and looked at Phelps. "Come over at 7:30, then, unless we call you." He turned and stepped over to Charlie, softly gripping his arm. "Charlie."

Charlie opened his eyes, looking completely disoriented, and Don gently helped him to his feet. "Come on, Buddy. We're heading home. Just like before – follow Colby."

Coming out of the courthouse was worse than going in. Charlie was already exhausted and not altogether steady on his feet, and he moved more slowly, blinking owlishly in the early evening sunlight as they came through the doors. Don kept one hand on his arm and the other up to fend off the microphones. The clamor was deafening, and by the time they reached the van, Charlie was shaking with stress and exhaustion.

As they pulled away from the curb, Don looked at his brother's pale face as Charlie leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. '_He's not going to make it,_' Don thought to himself, with a twinge of fear. '_There is no way he'll make it through this._'

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In spite of Don's prediction, somehow, Charlie made it through the evening of preparation with Phelps, and the next day of testimony. By day three of the prosecution's case, he seemed to be managing a bit better, although he still seemed to be barely hanging on, and at home, had gone into retreat mode again, quiet, subdued, barely communicating, hardly eating. It didn't help that the media pressure was now relentless, a sizable group was now camped on Charlie's street, and only the posted officer kept them from taking up residence on the lawn.

It was on day three that Parker dropped his first real bomb.

It happened during the cross-examination of Joe Peterson, from the crime lab. He'd just given his testimony, listing the items they'd found during Morgan's attack on Charlie at the hospital, and Roger Phelps had finished his questioning. Parker rose to his feet, and strolled toward Peterson, who looked slightly nervous as the renowned attorney approached him.

"Mis-ter Peterson," drawled Parker, "that's a fine list of evidence you have there. I'm not so concerned with what you have, however, than with what you don't have. You stated that the scalpel did not bear my client's fingerprints, is that correct?"

Peterson cleared his throat. "Yes, that's correct."

"In fact, it bore no fingerprints other than Don Eppes', is that correct?"

"Yes."

"But we know it was the instrument that was used on Charles Eppes, because it was covered with his blood. Correct?"

"Y- yes."

"And it would follow then, that during the – cutting – if there were not fingerprints, that the killer must have worn gloves. Would you say so?"

Peterson shot a look at Phelps. "Yes," he said hesitantly.

Don heard Colby, who was to his right, swear under his breath. "Damn gloves."

"Well, perhaps I missed it, Mister Peterson," said Parker, pleasantly. "In this whole pile of evidence, did you happen to submit a pair of gloves?"

"Yes," replied Peterson. "We submitted the work gloves of the accused."

"Which contained no blood. So is it safe to say that there must have been another pair of gloves?"

Peterson swallowed. "Yes."

"Well then, where are they? Did you collect all of my client's belongings?"

"We did, once he got to Cedars," replied Peterson. "He might have ditched the gloves on the way."

"And where would that have been?" demanded Parker. "Did you check the room where the attack occurred?"

"Yes."

"The ambulance?"

"Yes."

"And of course, the room where my client was forced to strip, even though he was injured?"

"Yes," conceded Peterson, miserably.

"Then where are the gloves?" asked Parker. He whirled to face the jury. "I'll tell you where they are – they were on the hands of the real killer, who left the room before my client arrived. In fact, in his sworn written testimony, my client stated that he saw a man, wearing scrubs, leaving that room moments before he entered it." He turned and looked back at Peterson, with a smug smile. "That's all, Mr. Peterson, thank you."

Charlie looked at Don, anxiously, and Morgan turned as Peterson stepped down from the stand, and whispered to his mother, but his blue eyes were fixed on Charlie. As Charlie faced the front of the courtroom again, he locked eyes with Morgan, and the killer smiled, with the side of his face that worked; the side the jury couldn't see.

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Things began to go downhill from there. Parker scoffed at McKelvey's testimony, including the attempt to arrest Morgan for stealing hospital medications when he was an intern, and insinuated the feds' witch-hunt of his client had actually started then. The fact that Morgan had grown up near Idledale, near the abandoned butcher shop, also brought on a fit of derision – so had thousands of other people, Parker maintained – with that logic, anyone who lived on the west side of Denver during that time would be a suspect. He pointed out that Morgan had been in Seattle for one week before the killings there started, but the Bureau didn't have proof he was in Seattle during the weeks the killings were occurring. He made it clear that the FBI had not been able to find the killer's mysterious van, and by the way, was it white or was it blue? The Bureau seemed to be confused. And of course, he made sure to point out that when the Bureau searched Morgan's hotel room, they found no evidence he was the killer, no surgical supplies, no drugs, no restraints. The Bureau could_ say_ that Morgan had another place and had stashed the van there until they were blue in the face, Parker bellowed, pounding his fist in his hand. Where was the _proof_?

Of course, as Phelps had predicted, Parker seized on the evidence of the dead body found in the Big Dalton Reservoir, and the fact that the M.E. couldn't pinpoint the time of death. The person was undoubtedly murdered by the Flower Killer; he agreed, but when? Much to his satisfaction, he got the M.E. to admit that it was a possibility the person could have been murdered while his client was in prison. The last to testify was Don, who held up well on stand and even kept his temper in check, as he recounted his portion of the tale, including Charlie's kidnapping, all the way up to finding Charlie, twice, with the killer. Of course the first time he was unable to ID the man because of darkness, and the second time, Parker maintained that his client, the poor innocent janitor, had walked in on the aftermath of the attack after the killer had already fled, only to be targeted by Don's vicious attack, as his unfortunate client tried to help the victims.

The only bright spot was that David had managed to find the Courier Express clerk who remembered the 'dead bird' note had been brought in to Courier Express the night of the attack, before Morgan was taken into custody. They put her on the stand, but Parker shrugged that off, saying the fact that Morgan was _able_ to drop off the note was a far cry from him actually _doing_ it.

It was a dispirited group that gathered in Phelps' office late in the afternoon, several days into the trial. Phelps ran a tired, exasperated hand over his face. "The bottom line evidence-wise," he said, "is the gloves. With the gloves, the entire case fits together, without them, our other evidence looks contrived – they're not buying it." Colby slumped in chair, miserably, at the statement. He had been with Morgan the whole time at the Greene Medical Center and during the transport to Cedars, and he felt personally responsible for the fact that the gloves were missing.

Phelps scanned the papers in front of him. "When Parker starts his defense, he's planning on calling Allison Cook to the stand, along with the hotel owner in Albuquerque. I'm sure he's going to use them to cast doubt on what the killer looked like – especially since Allison Cook actually knew Morgan, and still didn't ID her attacker as Morgan right off the bat." He looked at Charlie. "I'm afraid I have no choice, Dr. Eppes. I'm going to have to call you to the stand tomorrow."

Charlie looked at Don uncertainly. He was trying to stay composed, but his heart plummeted. He swallowed and looked back at Phelps, attempting to keep his voice steady. "Of course."

"Charlie-," Don began.

Phelps spoke at the same time. "You realize it will likely be more than one day of testimony."

Don looked at Phelps. "I'd like to speak to you privately."

"I'm okay, Don," Charlie objected. He didn't sound okay.

Phelps nodded. "All right, everyone, we're done for the day. Charlie, you can wait with your entourage in the other room." He glanced at David and Colby, the entourage, with a smile, but his attempt to lighten the atmosphere fell dismally flat. David, Colby, and Charlie stepped into a small adjoining office, and the rest of the group left, except for Don and Phelps, and A.D. Wright, who apparently considered Don's request for privacy not applicable to him.

Don ignored Wright, and went straight to the point. "I don't think you want to put him on the stand."

"I already told you, I don't have much of a choice. Fair or not, this whole trial has boiled down to his testimony. And without him up there personally, that testimony is just another piece of paper. We need something with impact."

"If he cracks on the stand, you'll have impact," said Don grimly. "Parker's gonna try to make him look like a nutcase, and you know it. If he's successful, this trial's over."

"And if I don't put him up there, it's still over," argued Phelps.

Wright looked at Don. "He's right, Don. Charlie already agreed to it. I know it's hard, but we've got to let him take the shot."

Don shook his head, but was silent. He knew it was going to happen, whether he wanted it to or not. He hadn't even voiced his biggest fear. If his brother broke, if he failed on the stand and the killer walked because Charlie couldn't hold it together, it would destroy him. He looked at Phelps with resignation. "Are you going to meet with him again tonight?"

Phelps shook his head. "No, I finished going over his testimony with him last night. He's as ready as he's going to get." He looked at Don sympathetically. "Better get him home, get him some rest. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

Don rose, nodded, and went to the door of the other room to call Charlie, feeling somehow like an executioner.

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End Chapter 53


	54. Chapter 54

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 54**

Ryan Morgan was ferried back to the prison and changed back into his jumpsuit in time for the before-dinner exercise break. It consisted of a fifteen-minute stint in the yard while the prison guards ushered the first crew back to their cells, and the cafeteria prepared for the second crew waiting outside. His eyes roved over the inmates until he'd found the one he wanted, Hector Cruz. Word was; Hector could get a person anything short of a gun, for a price.

He wandered up to Cruz, working his way in through the men surrounding him. They eyed him suspiciously, but gave way. In retrospect, at least as far as the prison was concerned, the scar was a good thing; it made him look tough. Morgan shuddered to think what some of the prisoners would have done with the pretty boy that he used to be. Of course, considering his reputation and what he was rumored to have done, maybe they wouldn't have touched him. Certainly, no one wanted to cross him now.

He sidled next to Cruz, and spoke softly. "I need something."

Cruz kept his eyes forward, and shrugged. "What?"

Morgan leaned as close as he dared, and whispered. Cruz stared forward, expressionlessly. "I don't know if I can get that," he muttered. "How about this?" He leaned toward Morgan and whispered back, pretending to scratch his nose, without breaking eye contact with the far wall.

"Okay," said Morgan quietly, "but I want the other if possible. And a key or a pick for handcuffs. How much?"

"Five G's. When?"

"As soon as possible."

"Maybe – one day, maybe two."

Morgan gave a slight nod, and slowly worked his way out of the group, pretending to wander aimlessly. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money, but his mother was good for it, and he had to have this. There was no way he was going to rot in prison for the rest of his life. He might not need it, the way the trial was going, but in case things went bad, he'd be prepared…

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Charlie sat on the futon in the darkness of the solarium, and stared at the bottle of sleeping pills. It would be so easy, he thought; just swallow some pills, and it would all be over. It wasn't the first time he'd considered it; in fact, he'd been even closer several days ago, the night Don had come up and found him holding a handful of pills. Don had come up to say good-bye for the evening, and Charlie had thought he was leaving – hadn't realized that he'd decided to stay the night. If he'd known that, if he'd thought that Don would have been there in the morning and his father wouldn't have been alone when he found his body, he might have done it then. He'd thought about it every night since then; some nights were worse than others. Tonight was one of them.

He knew he had to hold it together, he had to give it his best shot, but the weight of it was almost unbearable. Still, he _had _to bear it - he owed it to the other victims; they couldn't speak for themselves, so he had to find the strength for them. If he failed, there would be time enough to think about pills…

He laid down on the futon, looked at the stars through the glass of the solarium, and prayed to the night sky that he somehow would find the will to get through tomorrow.

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Colby glanced at his watch as he strode into the Greene Medical Center. Ten p.m., after visiting hours. It didn't matter, he could show his badge, and he did just that to security, before making his way to the emergency area. There – this was the area where they'd waited for the ambulance that had taken Morgan to Cedars-Sinai. He closed his eyes, trying to remember Morgan, what he'd done, where he'd waited in the wheelchair. Over there, he decided, and moved to the section of floor. This was the spot they'd transferred Morgan to the gurney. It was a section of open floor, there was no place to hide a pair of gloves.

And then it hit him, and he slapped himself in the forehead. Morgan's hands had been cuffed behind him, and Colby had removed the cuffs and then cuffed the killer's hands in front of him so he could lie on the ambulance gurney. Morgan had been screaming at the time, a bloody mess, yelling about police abuse, and Colby had been intent on getting him out of there quickly. So intent that he hadn't realized that Morgan didn't have gloves on – at least he didn't think so. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. He was fairly sure – he seemed to remember bare hands, and not bloody gloves. So that meant that Morgan had ditched them somewhere between Charlie's room, where Colby had first cuffed him, and the waiting area for the ambulance.

He turned slowly, and began to retrace the path back to Charlie's former room, his mind turning over the scene. This hallway, that hallway, all bare, clean, light flooring, nowhere to hide gloves, and besides, they had been moving the whole time, Morgan in his wheelchair, Colby just behind the orderly who was pushing it.

He'd made it back to the room where Charlie had been attacked. It was still empty, and he paused outside, before slowly walking in and flicking on the light. If Morgan had left the gloves there, the crime scene techs would have found them, he knew. They'd turned over everything, even stripped the bedding from the gurney. Morgan had to have gotten rid of them after he left the room.

He was getting frustrated now. There was nowhere, he thought, nowhere Morgan could have hidden them on the trip between, even if he hadn't been moving. "Goddamn gloves," he muttered to himself, as he stumped down the hallway. "Goddamn…,"

He stopped, staring off into space, with his mouth gaping open. The wheelchair – the damn wheelchair. He shut his mouth with a snap and hurried down the hallway to the nurses' station, and pulled out his badge. It was the same nurse who had been on duty the night Charlie was attacked; she recognized him. "I need to check out your wheelchairs," he said. "Where do you keep them?"

She frowned, and came out from behind the desk. "At night, we marshal them all down here," she said, leading the way down the hall. "They get wiped down for the next day. Sometimes one will get left in a room, but we try not to do that."

They came around a corner, and there sat the wheelchairs in an alcove, a dozen or so. "These are all of them in the hospital?" Colby asked.

"Oh, no," she said. "The other two wings have some too, and there are a few in the surgery area."

"Do these ever leave this wing?"

"Not usually, but you can't guarantee it. If one gets taken down to surgery, one of the other wings might pick it up there."

"Okay," Colby sighed. That was exactly what had happened with Morgan's wheelchair – it had been taken down to the central area near surgery. He might have to look through the entire hospital. "I'm going to take a look at these if you don't mind."

"Be my guest," she said, as she headed back toward her station. Colby ran his hands over the padding of the one of the chairs, and discovered that it wasn't glued on; it was attached by straps and fasteners, and there was space between the padding and the back of the chair, and the seat. He didn't care if this was going to take all night, he thought, as he ran his hands under the padding - he was going to find those gloves.

It took him two hours, and he'd had to go to the drug rehab wing, but he found them, stuffed between the padding and the back of the chair. As convinced as he'd been that he would find them, he still looked at them a bit stunned, as he held them carefully up by the edges, noting the dried blood as he dropped them into an evidence bag. "Holy shit," he breathed, and then his face broke into a wide, jubilant grin. "The damned gloves!"

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"So you've got the gloves," said Don, the next morning to Phelps. "Why does he still have to testify?"

They were in the prosecutor's office at the courtroom, and Charlie was cloistered in the small attached room next door with David, trying to prepare himself. "Chain of evidence," retorted Phelps. "Don't get me wrong, finding the gloves is a great thing, and I'll submit them, but it will take the lab at least a day to analyze them and that's with a rush job. And when I do submit them, Parker can argue that they were unaccounted for during the last several days and could have been tampered with."

"And who would have tampered with them?" growled Colby. "Little evil old ladies with white hair? Criminal paraplegics?"

"I know, I know," conceded Phelps. "But I can't take the chance – the judge could throw them out, not allow them as evidence. They will undoubtedly help the case if he allows them, but even then, it's not a slam-dunk. We need Charlie."

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Charlie, at that moment, was sitting with his head over his knees trying to fight off a surge of dizziness. David had a steadying hand on his shoulder, and drew it back but let it hover, as Charlie sat slowly up, panting, and wiped his forehead. "You okay, there?"

"I – I – no." Charlie answered. He swallowed. "I don't know if I can do this – physically, I mean. I keep feeling like I can't breathe.

David nodded sympathetically. "It's never fun testifying. I hate it. Of course, I've never been the victim, either." He paused for a moment. "I've always had this belief, ever since I was a kid. When I was young, I grew up in a rough neighborhood. We never had a lot; I always felt like something less, put down – I felt like a victim of society."

Charlie's breathing had slowed a little and his eyes were on him, and David, encouraged, continued. "I got resentful, angry – I felt like I had no control over my life, no way to get out of that neighborhood, so I started acting up. My mother caught wind of it, and she pulled me aside, and said, 'David, no one _makes_ you a victim. They can hold you down, they can be unfair, but they cannot make you a victim against your will. You need to stand up and take charge of your life – then you _won't _be a victim.'" His eyes rose to the ceiling, flashing as he spoke, as he remembered, then his face softened and he looked at Charlie. "You've been feeling like a victim, man. Don't let 'em do it to you. Today's your day to feel like a hero. Today's your day to fight back."

A knock sounded, and one of Phelps' assistants stuck his head through the door. "The judge is ready."

Charlie looked at David, and rose to his feet. "Okay." He stood for a moment, his gaze on David's face. "Thanks." In truth, the words had barely sunk in; he was still trying to concentrate on breathing, but he tried to focus on them - he had a sense that he'd just been told something profound, and he tried to hang on to it, as he shuffled out of the room.

David gave him a soft slap on the arm, and they made their way through the outer office into the hallway, where Don, Larry, Colby, and Amita were waiting. Larry and Amita hadn't been present since the first day of the trial; they'd both had commitments at CalSci, but today, they had again lobbied successfully for more time off, so they could be there for Charlie during his testimony.

Don took in Charlie's pale face with concern. "Okay, Buddy?" he murmured.

Charlie nodded. His heart was hammering; he couldn't speak.

Amita looked at him, her heart twisting. He was quiet, and pale, but somehow, in spite of his vulnerability, she was left with the impression of a warrior about to do battle. She impulsively tiptoed and kissed him softly on the cheek, then smiled at him as he turned toward her. "For luck," she said, and he nodded again, zombie-like, and walked down the hallway.

Later, he didn't remember walking into the courtroom other than a snapshot glimpse of Morgan's face, his evil blue eyes. He didn't remember anything, in fact, not even Phelps calling him to the stand; he didn't remember walking up there. He remembered nothing until after he was seated, and his hand was on the Bible, as he swore an oath to tell the truth. And then it began to sink in.

David was partially correct. In spite of what the agent had said, Charlie _was_ a victim, but

David was right about one thing - it was time to fight back. He was there representing all of the others who had been attacked by that monster, and he had to make it right. It didn't make him any less terrified; if anything it raised the stakes – but it did make him determined to succeed, or die trying.

The hours of rehearsal with Phelps helped. The D.A. really knew his craft, Charlie realized, as Phelps gently guided him through his testimony. It was, in an odd way, like giving a lecture – one organized one's information, one prepared, rehearsed; then spoke to the audience. When Charlie put it in that light, he was able to set the horror aside a little, as if the terrible story was merely lecture material. He spoke quietly, mostly to the jury, because he couldn't stand looking at Morgan. He was lecturing, and they were attending his lecture. Keep it at arm's distance, keep chugging away, get through the material, stay calm, and don't fall apart. Like a lecture, like a lecture…

Phelps took his time. It took the entire morning to get through Charlie's kidnapping and Joanie Shire's murder at the warehouse; Phelps reintroduced evidence, grisly pictures of the scene, a bloody cord that had been used to bind Joanie, anything physical they had to punctuate Charlie's story. At one point, Charlie shifted his gaze from the jury and it passed over Mike Shire. Silent tears were running down his face, but he looked at Charlie with a fierce encouragement, rooting him on. Charlie took a breath for a moment, his eyes scanning the gallery where the rest of the victims' families were sitting. Grief was apparent in their faces; it had to be so hard for them to hear how their loved ones had died, but there was a light in their eyes similar to Mike Shire's – a light of vindication, a look that said finally, there was someone who would tell the real story to the jury.

The knowledge that they were depending on him suddenly hit home; the burden abruptly felt too heavy to bear, and Charlie faltered.

"Dr. Eppes?" he heard Phelps ask, and Charlie looked at him. "Dr. Eppes, are you all right?"

"Yes," said Charlie. He uttered the word simply to buy time – he wasn't okay, but he was trying to get there. He looked over Phelps' shoulder, caught Parker and Morgan leaning forward slightly, with anticipation, and then Don watching him with concern – and Dad... He pulled himself together - had to get back to the lecture. Had to get back… "Yes, I'm okay. It's just… difficult." He looked at the jury, apologetically, and a large black woman seated in the second row actually nodded at him, encouragingly.

Phelps caught her look, and felt a little thrill run through him. Eppes was perfect – he was extremely expressive, and it was apparent to all that the story was hard for him to tell, but he was holding together, speaking calmly, quietly, his voice shaking sometimes, but only when it was appropriate. Although Phelps was sure it was unintentional, Charlie had the jury eating out of his hand, and Phelps couldn't resist a glance at Parker. Randall Lee looked as though he just eaten something sour, and Morgan – Phelps found himself staring, and caught himself, looking at the jury to see if they had seen it. The look on Morgan's face was shocking. He wasn't angry; he was smiling – leering lopsidedly, his blue eyes lit with an evil predatory glint. He was obviously completely obsessed with the young man on the stand, and Phelps glanced around involuntarily, just to make sure that there was a guard close. Charlie was now composed and waiting, and so, fighting the chill running down his spine, Phelps led Charlie back into his story.

They broke for lunch, and as usual headed back to the prosecution office; the press made it impossible to do anything else. As soon as they were inside, Alan enveloped Charlie in a bear hug, and Amita followed suit with a quick hug of her own. Don gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze, a ghost of a smile on his face, pride in his eyes, although he still appeared sober. There was a lot more testimony to come, and Charlie had yet to face Parker. "You did great, Buddy," he murmured, and Charlie took a deep shaky breath.

The break went quickly. Charlie choked down two bites of a sandwich; it was all he could manage, and all too soon, they were heading back in. He was facing some of the worst parts of the story yet – Albuquerque, and the meatpacking plant at Denver.

The courtroom was buzzing as they came in; the reporters conversing with barely subdued excitement. It was certainly one of the stories of the decade, and they were all realizing how fortunate they were to have been selected to cover it. Once the testimony began again, however, the room fell eerily silent for one so full of people; everyone was hanging on each quiet word that came from the professor's mouth.

As Charlie began to recount his awakening in the hotel room in Albuquerque and his realization that he'd been shaved while asleep, Morgan closed his eyes. He could barely contain himself; the memory of that, of the skin under his fingertips. His eyes flickered open, caressed the professor's face, the jaw line, dropping into the neck, and then under his shirt, his suit jacket, down the chest…

"Wipe that look off your face," Parker hissed. Morgan opened his eyes, and tried to straighten out his features; fortunately, the scar made it difficult to tell if he was smiling or frowning. Several of the jurors were looking at him oddly, some with outright repulsion, and Morgan almost snorted with laughter.

He glanced at Parker, slightly amused. "I thought you said we had this case locked up," he whispered back.

"That was yesterday," Parker whispered back irritably. He frowned, scanning the documents in front of him as he listened, which contained a written version of Charlie's testimony that the prosecution had submitted, looking for holes, for anything in the written statement that conflicted with the verbal testimony that the professor was giving now. So far, there had been nothing.

Morgan scowled a bit at Parker's response, and his gaze flitted back to the jury. He felt the beginnings of real fear start to take root in his stomach, and he took a glance around the courtroom, noting the position of the guards. He needed to start assessing his best opportunities, if this was going bad; there were only a few days of trial left, and he had to solidify his plans. His gaze was arrested as it came to rest on Charlie again. The professor was beginning to talk about waking up in the meatpacking plant in Denver, and Morgan couldn't help himself; he floated back in time, remembering …

Randall Lee Parker pursed his lips, and studied the young man on the stand. Charlie was definitely uncomfortable with much of the testimony – especially this part. That made him vulnerable on the stand, and if Parker could get an edge somehow… He frowned, as Charlie moved on from the attack – there was something missing – he had left something out. Parker looked down at the written testimony, searching through it until he found it. There it was, interesting, now why would he leave that out? Parker wondered. Eppes had completely left out any mention of actions that could have been construed as sexual assault – he'd described being hung from the hook and being beaten until he was unconscious, but that was all. Parker flipped to another document, the list of charges being filed against his client, and looked under the charges listed as sexual assault – there were several on behalf of the female victims, but none on behalf of Charles Eppes. The government had filed charges of kidnapping, assault, and attempted murder on the professor's behalf, but nothing else. Apparently, the professor hadn't wished to press that particular charge, and Parker knew why – he didn't want to discuss it on the stand. Unfortunately for the professor, the prosecution hadn't taken those details out of the sworn statement. That made it fair game for Parker. He sat back in his chair, a grim smile on his face. He had just found his edge.

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End Doc 54


	55. Chapter 55

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 55**

Ryan Morgan sought out Hector Cruz in the prison yard again that evening. Parker's words had put fear in his gut; he was definitely going to need to be prepared – he needed the items from Cruz. He found the inmate lounging against the wall of the building, surveying the yard with his posse around him, and Morgan sidled through them to Cruz' side. "You get what I needed?" he asked quietly through clenched teeth, looking out into the yard, not moving his lips.

"Not what you wanted. Too tough right now," responded Cruz, in a like manner, lazily slouched against brick. "I can get you a shank, no switchblade. Price is less, though – three thousand."

Morgan's jaw tightened. "Not good enough."

"Sure it is," replied Cruz. "It can't cut too well, but you can stab with it. And I can get you a pick for the cuffs, like you asked."

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Sit next to me at dinner – stick them in the hem of your pants leg, in the front of the leg. When they pat you down, they check the sides and the back." He gave Morgan further instructions to have someone deposit the money in an account in a downtown bank, as the signal sounded for dinner. They drifted toward the doors, side by side; neither of them had looked at each other once.

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Don stepped out into the night and took a deep breath. Life had seemed surreal lately; it had been completely upended since the moment he'd found the birds in his apartment. The familiar backyard of the Craftsman brought him back for instant - the sight of it at night, the smell of summer reminded him of playing hide-and-seek in the darkness with Charlie, as kids. Charlie was out in the darkness now, sitting by the koi pond, and as Don moved toward him, he reflected that although his brother was in plain sight, the Charlie he knew was still hidden for the most part; still wrapped away inside his head. He'd been quiet before his testimony that morning, and quiet again that night. He hadn't been himself since the ordeal; his normal confidence stripped away, seemingly on the edge of something, some kind of abyss. He'd done well on the stand that day, but he'd still been obviously scared, tentative, very much a victim. Don couldn't help but compare it to the last time he'd seen Charlie speak in public, at his awards banquet. The confident young man on the podium that night bore little resemblance to his brother now. Even though Charlie was no longer in physical danger, in many respects, he was still fighting for his life, trying to claw his way back to normalcy, trying to escape the horrors inside his mind.

He sat down on the bench next to him, and caught Charlie's glance. For a peaceful moment, they said nothing, just watched the reflection of light on the water, then Don spoke. "You did great today."

Charlie snorted softly. "I managed. I don't know if it was great." He looked at Don. "Did I look as scared as I felt?"

Don's face softened. "You looked a little scared, and there was one time, maybe more than a little. It didn't matter, though, you kept your head, and the jury seemed to identify with you. You made up a lot of ground today – Phelps thinks you put us back on an even keel."

"I almost lost it at one point," Charlie admitted. "I realized that all those families out there were watching me, counting on me, and then I looked at – him – and I kind of freaked a little." He swallowed, and his voice dropped. "I still can't stand to look at him."

Silence descended again, and Don sat brooding. How close to the edge was Charlie, he wondered? He looked sideways again. "There's something I wanted to ask you – something that's been bugging me. A couple of nights ago, when I walked in the solarium – you had all those pills in your hand, well, I - you weren't thinking – uh," he paused, trying to get the words out; they were too hard to say. Instead, he glanced sideways, and his heart dropped as the look on Charlie's face gave him the answer.

Charlie looked up at him guiltily. "About taking them all?" he finished. He looked away, his jaw working. "I don't know."

"Charlie." Don's voice was stunned, filled with reproach.

Charlie glanced at him again, with a plea for understanding on his face. "I know," he said quickly. "I didn't do it, though." He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt so off-balance, so – not right – still. He felt weak and uncertain, especially next to Don. A picture flitted through his mind of Don in the courtroom that day, how confident he seemed. And then, in contrast, there was him, tentative, frightened – he wanted to get back to the way he used to be, but he didn't know how. Today, on the stand, he'd taken a first step, but he still seemed so far away from right, from normal.

"Charlie, please, promise me," Don said, his voice shaking, and Charlie opened his eyes and looked at him in surprise. Don's face was twisted with pain, and he stared into Charlie's eyes, intensely. "If you ever think about anything like that again, talk to me about it first, okay? It doesn't matter where or when – I'll come over in the middle of the night – it doesn't matter."

Charlie stared back at him, and nodded slowly, a bit taken aback by Don's reaction, and he realized how selfish even the mere thought of it had been. Talking about it, bringing it out in the open made him realize that – how insane it was to contemplate, even abstractly. Looking back at it, he wondered how he could have even entertained the thought. It brought home to him just how off-kilter he had been.

"There was really only one point – anyway, I think I'm past that now." He sighed shakily, and ran a hand over his face, guilt settling on him like a cloud, when he thought of Don and his father, how patient they'd been with him. "I know I've been – a burden. I'm starting to think a little more normally, I guess, and I look back and realize how bad I was -," he smiled ruefully, with a glance at Don, "how bad I still am." His expression sobered, intensified, and his eyes suddenly glittered with moisture. "I know it's been tough for you and for Dad, dealing with it – I just want to say – thanks for being there. I haven't said it, but I never would have made it through all of this without you."

Don looked back at him, and was filled with the sensation of something suddenly giving way inside, a hard tight knot of pent up worry and tension melting, and being replaced by a glow, that spread upward into his throat, making it hard to talk. Instead, he reached out and put an arm around Charlie's shoulders, and gave him a squeeze, swallowing, trying to find his voice. "Of course I'd be there. I'd never leave you, Buddy," he finally managed in a husky whisper.

Charlie reached out, and squeezed Don's arm, awkwardly. "I know," he whispered back. "And I won't either. I promise."

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Charlie stepped into the solarium that night, exhausted, his mind on the trial the next day. He'd made it through his testimony, and although he'd done well, he knew the worst was yet to come. He was dreading Parker's cross-examination, but Charlie was beginning to feel that as long as he kept the testimony at arm's length, treating it like lecture material, like something that had happened to someone else; he just might get through it.

It was Morgan who was the biggest threat, Charlie had decided. Sitting at the front like that, facing Morgan, he'd had to keep his eyes on something else. The one time he'd looked at the killer, he'd been completely thrown, had almost experienced a panic attack right on the stand.

"Just take the questions one at a time," Phelps had advised him, "and keep your eyes on the jury." Simple enough instructions, if he could follow them.

He brought his mind back to the present, and realized he was standing in the middle of the room. For the first time in days, he felt tired enough to sleep without medication and had no real desire to spend time staring at the stars, or even to distract himself with an analysis. He gazed at the bottle of sleeping pills and the futon for a moment, thinking about his conversation with Don, then turned and flicked off the light, heading out the door.

Alan was on his way to his room when he passed Charlie in the hallway. "Charlie. I thought you'd gone to bed already. Did you forget something?"

Don appeared in the doorway of his old bedroom; he'd obviously heard Alan and had stepped to the door to look out. He appeared a little worried, Charlie thought, and it came to him that he'd put that look on his brother's face; Don had done nothing but worry about him for the past several weeks. Charlie shot both of them a small reassuring smile as he passed. "No," he said to them, over his shoulder. "I just thought I'd sleep in my own room tonight."

He went inside and closed the door behind him, and Don and Alan looked at each other in surprise. Their features both relaxed at the same time; and Don smiled. "G'night, Dad."

"'Night," replied Alan, and taking a deep breath, he turned and headed for his room, wondering if maybe, the end of the nightmare was in sight.

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He'd been a little too optimistic, Charlie decided, the next morning. It felt good being in his own bed again, but going from a double dose of sleeping pills to none had set him up for an evening of nightmares. He was tired and jittery, and the sense of control from the night before had evaporated. He'd done well on the stand the day before, but he knew he could easily negate everything he'd done if he blew it today.

With that cheerful thought, he made his way down the hallway to the courtroom, along with the rest of the group. He sat with them until the judge was seated and he was called to the stand. Randall Lee Parker stood as soon as he was instructed to proceed, and strolled in front of Charlie; then stopped. Charlie had planned to keep his eyes on the jury, but he had to look at the attorney while he was speaking – it would look odd if he didn't, and Parker knew that. The lawyer picked his spot strategically, standing so Charlie would see Ryan Morgan over Parker's right shoulder every time he looked that way. The attorney hadn't even started asking questions yet, and already Charlie was rattled.

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Amita sat between Alan and Larry, filled with nearly unbearable tension. She hadn't heard the entire story of Charlie's abduction until the day before; she hadn't realized the extent of what he'd gone through. She was still shaken by it; she'd spent the entire sleepless night thinking about it. Although someone who didn't know him well would think he looked somewhat collected on the stand, perhaps just a little tense, she knew better. She could feel his anxiety across the room, and it ratcheted up her own. Yesterday, she'd thought of him as a warrior ready to do battle as he'd walked into courtroom, and she realized now just how apt that comparison was; she knew now just how brave it was for him to do this, to face Morgan in court, each day. She also, knew, without a doubt, it only made her love him more.

As Charlie was sworn in, she glanced at Alan, whose face was creased with worry. He glanced back and his expression softened as he reached over and patted her hand. It had to be so hard for him, she thought, to sit there and listen to what had been done to his youngest son.

Alan looked at Amita, taking in the worry on her face, knowing it was reflected in his own. He knew, more than anyone except perhaps Don and Susan Raine, how deeply all of this had affected Charlie. Over the past few weeks, he'd seen Charlie at his lowest moments; he knew how vulnerable he was, how raw he still was inside. Like Amita, he'd heard the entire story for the first time the day before, and was shocked, shaken to his core by Charlie's recounting. As the shock had resided, it had left him numb at first, but that was slowly giving way to outrage, and a new sense of fear as Charlie faced the defense attorney. Alan was well aware of 'that Parker man's' reputation, and he'd had an opportunity to see him work. The man was obviously ruthless, and skilled. The senior Eppes wasn't one given to hate, but he could truly say that was the emotion he felt for Morgan, and for Parker, the man who represented him. He hated Parker, and he feared him, too – feared him for the damage he could do to Charlie. As Parker rose and approached his son, it was all he could do to stay in his seat.

Larry glanced at Alan and Amita uncertainly as Parker got to his feet, a hand made its way to the side of his face, and he held it there, plastered against his cheek as if he had a toothache. It was a habit Larry didn't even know he had, until Megan teased him about it. When nervous or perturbed, a hand would creep toward his head, and stay there in one position or another – sometimes both hands, sometimes resting gently, sometimes pushing on a portion of his face as if it was putty, accentuating the worried furrows in his brow. And worried he was. It was unthinkable what his colleague, his protégé; his good friend had gone through. To see him up there now reminded him of a long-ago moment, when he watched a teenage Charles Eppes defend his doctoral thesis against some of the best minds in the math world. Then, as now, Larry was rooting for him, with all his heart and soul. '_As are we all_,' he thought, looking across the room at Don and his team.

Charlie's older brother was pale-faced and motionless, his eyes fixed on his younger sibling. Larry knew that if Don could be up there in his place, he would be, in a heartbeat.

Don's gaze was riveted on Charlie, and he had it – the feeling. It was a sensation that he experienced before a raid, a moment brought on by adrenaline – a prickly, wide-awake state, where everything seemed focused, brought into sharp relief, into hyper-clarity, his mind and nerve endings on overdrive. It was pure torture to have to sit there in that condition, motionless, to listen and watch an enemy attack his brother. Even though that attack would be made only with words, considering Charlie's vulnerable state, the thought was still disquieting. Morgan's presence, too, in the front row, was menacing; Don knew Charlie felt it keenly – hell, _he_ felt it – a malignant aura in the courtroom that had kept Don on edge every time Charlie was in the room with the man. If Morgan so much as twitched the wrong way, Don knew he would go right over Phelps, seated in the row in front of him.

As Parker began to speak, Don took in a breath, looking at Charlie's tense, pale face. '_C'mon, Buddy,_' he entreated, under his breath. '_You can do it, I know you can._'

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End Chapter 55

_Thanks for the reviews all - next chapter, the showdown between Parker and Charlie..._


	56. Chapter 56

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 56**

Parker strolled toward the stand and looked at the professor with a falsely sympathetic smile. He really only had three points to get across, but he intended to go through the whole testimony again, taking his time, making sure the professor was sufficiently tired and uncomfortable before he tried to crack him. First, though, he would try to discredit him.

He knew that Charlie hadn't looked at Morgan much the previous day, but it wasn't until he got up in front of the professor that he realized how much the sight of the killer disturbed him. The young man was trying to face him, but his gaze kept jerking to the side, away from Morgan, and he was shifting uncomfortably. Parker decided to capitalize on that, and instead of moving forward, he stayed where he was, forcing Charlie to look in Morgan's direction.

"Professor Eppes," Parker drawled; his voice oily, smooth. "I am sorry to have to put you through more testimony; I know this is difficult. I heard about your nervous breakdown after the attack, and I hate to put you through anymore stress."

Phelps was on his feet. "Objection!" he protested sharply. "Dr. Eppes never had a nervous breakdown. I request that the statement be withdrawn."

"Objection noted," said Judge Vasquez. "Please strike the statement from the record." He looked sternly at Parker, who shrugged, with a slight smile, and glanced at the jury, trying to gauge their reaction to his statement.

"All right, then," said Parker amiably. "I'm not sure what you want to call it, but I understand you had a pretty hard time afterward – you were admitted to the psychiatric ward in Denver, where you not?"

"Yes," Charlie admitted, then added, dryly, "Post traumatic stress disorder was what they called it. An understandable reaction, I've been told, considering what I went through."

Phelps was following the proceedings closely, and knew Parker was trying to make Charlie look unstable, unhinged. He held his breath while Charlie answered; then let it out with relief. The professor couldn't have given a better response, and he saw Parker's smug smile waver a little.

Parker, however, was undeterred. "I can imagine how such an ordeal could affect your mind. Tell me professor, have you ever had to obtain psychiatric treatment before this occurred?"

Charlie felt his gut twist. In all the rehearsal they'd done, Phelps had never touched on this topic. They'd barely gotten into the cross-examination, and already he was facing a question he wasn't sure how to answer. He looked at Phelps, his father, and Don, then back at Parker, his eyes skittering away as they lit on Morgan.

Alan twisted his hands. Margaret had taken Charlie to a psychiatrist at Princeton, but that was so long ago. '_Keep your head, son_,' he willed Charlie. '_Don't let him make that into more than it was_.' In the back of his mind lurked the phrase "P vs. NP," but Charlie hadn't gone for professional help during that episode – he didn't have to admit to it, because Parker had only asked for actual treatment. Alan's heart sank a little as he heard Charlie's response, uttered in a low voice.

"Yes. Once."

Parker grinned. It had really been a shot in the dark, that question, but he'd scored. "So you have a history of – issues."

Charlie looked at the jury – he really was too guileless to work them consciously, but he didn't want to look at Parker and Morgan. "I only saw a therapist once before this – many years ago. It happened when I was young - I was a thirteen-year-old kid in my first year at Princeton, away from home, surrounded by much older students. I had a little issue with stress."

He didn't mean for the words to come out with that bit of sarcasm, but they did, and several members of the jury smirked in sympathy. Phelps smiled, and Parker scowled. This wasn't heading the way he'd hoped. "But this last time was more serious," he pressed.

Don listened intently; he hadn't been aware of Charlie's treatment at Princeton, and he wondered fleetingly how many other things he didn't know from that time. He watched Charlie's face as he answered, composed, pale, eyes dark as night.

Charlie looked at Parker warily. "Yes," he admitted quietly.

Parker pondered his next words carefully. He'd heard rumors, and read some of the more sensational stories that had been published when Dr. Eppes was in the hospital. They'd ranged from coma to raving nuts, and everything in between. He really had no idea if there was truth to any of them, and his request of records from Dr. Raine had been denied, based on patient confidentiality rights. "In your opinion, while you were in the hospital, were you behaving irrationally?"

Charlie stared at him, caught a glimpse of Morgan, leering at him, a thin stream of drool running down his chin, and felt a sudden surge of panic. He looked away, trying to fight it down, and caught the sympathetic looks from the victims' families. Don found himself holding his breath, gripping the edge of his seat, waiting for Charlie's response.

"I – retreated," Charlie said. "I was severely traumatized by everything I'd seen and experienced, and I had a difficult time talking to others for a while. The memories were – hard to take." His voice dropped off, and for a moment, there was silence in the courtroom. He cleared his throat and looked at Parker's left ear. "If by irrational, you mean that I was speaking crazily, or out of my head, then no. Was I in shock? Yes. Eventually I recovered enough to speak about what had happened."

It wasn't the response Parker had hoped for, but he saw a chink in the armor and pounced on it. "'Recovered enough?'" he repeated. "Who determined that?"

Charlie looked at him. "The Bureau asked me to make a statement, and when I felt I could give it, I did."

"Did your doctor concur that you were 'well' enough to make it?" Parker emphasized 'well,' with a slightly sardonic tone.

"The doctor not only concurred, she checked in on the proceedings from time to time."

"To make sure you didn't freak out, I presume."

"Objection!" shouted Phelps, jumping to his feet.

"You will strike that from the record," ordered Vasquez. He glowered at Parker. "If you have a point with this line of questioning, then I suggest you make it promptly."

Parker drew himself up, and moved toward the jury, his voicing rising. "Oh, I have a point, your honor. My point is this – the Bureau pushed this young man into making a statement while still in a state of shock, and furthermore, dragged him out to LAPD headquarters to make an identification while he was still convalescing. We all agree he went through a horrible ordeal, and it is perfectly understandable that he was not thinking straight. My _point_ is the witness was not of sound mind when he made that identification."

Don could scarcely keep himself in his seat; he was boiling with anger. Charlie looked at him and at Phelps, wide-eyed, obviously a bit shaken, at a loss with how to address the issue. He didn't have a chance, however. Parker knew he'd made as much of an impression as he could hope to make on the subject and he didn't want to give the professor a chance to water down the impact. He moved on, re-tracing Charlie's testimony of the previous day.

He spent hours on it, forcing the professor to recount the most harrowing parts, picking at his words, testing his memory, poking at the evidence samples again. He was trying to get Eppes to change the way he'd told the story the day before, even a piece of it, and although Charlie looked more and more shaken as the morning progressed, his story, to that point, was still consistent. As the judge announced a break for lunch, Parker deemed that except for the early points he'd scored concerning Charlie's state of mind, they were at a stalemate. He was, however, saving the best for the afternoon.

He waved Charlie off the stand with a magnanimous smile, noting with satisfaction that the young man looked unsteady on his feet, and headed back toward his seat next to Morgan. His smile faded, however, as he saw a man hand Phelps a paper and a large envelope, and speak to him quietly but urgently. Phelps stood immediately and looked at Judge Vasquez, who had just lifted his gavel to dismiss the court for lunch. "Your Honor, the prosecution has just been advised that some new evidence has come to light. If it would please the court, we would like to submit this evidence, and present it at the end of our case."

Vasquez frowned, and looked at the two attorneys. "Gentlemen, if you would, please meet briefly in my chambers to discuss this." He banged his gavel. "The court is adjourned for lunch, and will reconvene in one hour."

Charlie somehow made it out of the courtroom and found himself in the hallway, Don's strong hand gently guiding him down the corridor. He felt like a boxer who had just gone through a vicious round and had taken some punches, and was returning to his corner the worse for wear, to get ready to go out again at the sound of the bell. Reporters lined the hallway, observing; they weren't allowed to create a ruckus inside the building and had been instructed not to badger the trial participants with questions, but they stood watching for reactions, writing on their pads. The group, including Alan, Amita, Larry, and Don's team, along with Phelps' assistants, made it to the prosecutor's main office and crowded inside.

One of the assistants faced them. "Phelps is submitting the gloves," he said. "We just got the DNA results back. Professor Eppes' blood was on them, all right, and they found small amounts of blood inside them also, in the knuckle area, that belonged to Ryan Morgan."

Colby grunted and looked at Don. "He probably split the skin on his knuckle when he punched you."

The assistant nodded. "That's what the lab thought. If the judge allows them as evidence, it'll be a big help." He waved a hand at a cardboard box. "There's sandwiches in there, help yourselves, folks." He was speaking to all of them, but his eyes were on Charlie as he spoke.

Alan's were, too. His younger son wasn't looking exactly steady. "Charlie, find a chair somewhere, I'll get you a sandwich."

"That's okay," murmured Charlie. "Just something to drink, maybe." Head down, he pushed through the door into the attached office and sank shakily into a chair.

The rest of them exchanged concerned glances, and Don pushed through the door after him, and knelt beside his chair, looking up into his face. "You're doing fine, Chuck. Just get through this afternoon – he's almost to Denver; he won't be able to drag your testimony out past today, even if he wanted to."

Charlie looked at Don with a bewildered expression, as Alan entered the room with a bottle of iced tea. "Why is he doing this – going back through all of it? I went over yesterday the same stuff. And I'm not doing fine. He made me sound like I wasn't rational, right off the bat. I didn't know what to say."

One of Phelps' assistants had followed Alan into the room, and he responded. "Considering the curve ball he threw, there, you did okay," he reassured Charlie. "You do seem a little tense up there, but you're keeping your head, and Phelps thinks you're playing well to the jury. Just keep behaving the same way, and the jury will see you're rational, in spite of the picture that Parker's trying to paint. Phelps doesn't think that we lost any ground this morning, and he's going to use Parker's comments on your past psychiatric treatment as an excuse to redirect."

Charlie didn't respond; he raised the iced tea to his lips with an unsteady hand, but Don could see by the look on his face that Charlie was still anxious, still struggling, in spite of the assistant's attempt to reassure him. And now Phelps was going to redirect – that meant even more time on the stand. It was going to be a long afternoon.

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An hour later, they were back in the courtroom, ready, and Judge Vasquez, Parker, and Phelps still hadn't made their appearance. Charlie was already in his seat on the stand, and longer they waited, Don was beginning to think that putting him up there to wait had been a mistake. The platform was high, and Charlie was in plain view of everyone in the court, looking lost, uncomfortable, vulnerable, pinned in his chair by Ryan Morgan's gaze. Finally, the judge and the two lawyers entered the room, and Don scanned their faces, trying to determine what the judge's ruling had been. As Phelps approached his seat, he was facing Don with his back to the judge, and holding his hand down at his waist, gave Don a surreptitious thumbs-up, indicating that the gloves were in as evidence. Don looked up at Charlie, who was watching anxiously, gave him a ghost of a smile and a slight nod, and he saw Charlie exhale with relief.

That relief was short lived; Parker, apparently unhappy with the ruling on the gloves, seemed to be out for blood. He hammered Charlie relentlessly with questions, dropping his sympathetic demeanor and adopting an outraged tone, as if Charlie's mere presence on the stand angered him. As they reached the testimony concerning Albuquerque, Parker made the second of his three points of attack. "So you mean to tell us the killer began to grow a beard, had a wig with long brown hair, and used brown contacts to disguise himself."

"Yes," said Charlie quietly.

Parker turned toward the jury. "And yet the Bureau has been unable to come up with any of those items in my client's belongings." He swiveled back to face Charlie. "Are you even sure he had brown contacts? Perhaps he had brown eyes, and wore blue contacts."

"Most of the time when he was with me, his eyes were blue," Charlie responded. "He only changed them to brown a few times, when he was going out. Logic would say that his eyes are blue – even if I hadn't made the identification."

"Ah, yes, your identification. The identification you made while still recovering. Tell me, Doctor, have you been deemed well enough to go back to work?"

Charlie stared at him, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject, but managed to answer. "I teach. My regular classes start in the fall." The truth was, he was thinking of going back at the start of the fall term, if for nothing else than to try to keep his mind occupied, but he hadn't told anyone of his decision, not even Mildred Finch.

"Hmm." Parker was strolling back and forth in front of him, forcing Charlie's eyes to follow, raking them across Ryan Morgan behind him. "But I'm sure a professor of your stature has ongoing research projects, perhaps summer classes. Have you returned to those yet?"

"No."

"And so you're not considered well enough to do a math problem, but you're of sound mind to make a determination on the life of a man." Parker's tone dripped with condescension.

"Objection, leading the witness," interjected Phelps, angrily.

"I'll allow the statement to remain, but you must rephrase as a question, Mr. Parker," said Vasquez.

"Very well," said Parker, smiling. He softened his tone. "Professor, you've been through something one would never reasonably expect a person to come through unscathed. Throughout this, you've been treated by psychiatric specialists, and are continuing to seek treatment. Is this correct?"

Charlie shot a worried glance at Phelps. "Yes. I'm still being treated."

"And has your doctor told you can go back to work?"

"I haven't asked her, yet, but I was planning to start in the fall -,"

"Please, answer the question, Dr. Eppes," interjected Vasquez.

Charlie's shoulders dropped a little. "No, she hasn't."

Parker's voice rose, and he turned toward the jury. "So here we have a man who subjected to severe mental and physical trauma, to the point that he is incapable of working. He was barely speaking again when he gave his statement to the Bureau, and not much later than that, he identified my client as the man who kidnapped him – a man who had been disfigured, altering his appearance so much that his own mother barely recognized him when she saw him. And on top of all that, the professor cannot even tell us with absolute certainty whether his abductor's eyes were blue, or brown, can you, professor?"

"No. But the eye color is immaterial. Ryan Morgan is the man." Charlie tried to keep his voice steady, but his heart was hammering. He was losing control of this; he could see the skepticism on the faces of the jury.

"In fact," Parker ignored him, and paused dramatically as he prepared to drop his third bombshell, "The professor has changed his testimony since he first gave it in a sworn statement to the FBI."

Charlie gaped at him. "That's not true."

Parker strode over to his desk, grabbed his copy of Charlie's written testimony, and swung around, waving it in the air. "I have here sworn and notarized written testimony from Charles Eppes, as given to the FBI several days ago." He paced over to Phelps, and presented him with the sheaf of papers. "I'll let you do the honors, Mr. Phelps. Is this not the same document your office provided me with at the start of this trial?"

Phelps took it from him warily, suspicion on his face, and leafed through the packet, then handed it back, frowning. "It is."

"Where are you going with this?" asked Judge Vasquez, impatiently.

"I will tell you, your Honor." Parker stepped forward and placed himself in front of Charlie, but continued to address the judge. "In this document, Dr. Eppes gives a different account of his assault in the warehouse than he gave in this courtroom.

'_Shit_,' muttered Phelps and Don at the same time, both of them under their breaths. Each of them knew what had been left out of Charlie's verbal testimony, and why, and each of them realized, belatedly, that Charlie's original account had never been revised for court. Charlie however, didn't know that. He was already shaken, and was about to be blindsided. He was staring at Parker like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Specifically," continued Parker, "in this account, Eppes speaks of actions by his kidnapper that could easily be construed as sexual assault." Charlie paled, and Parker turned his eyes on him. "Dr. Eppes, were you or were you not sexually assaulted by your kidnapper?"

Charlie could feel the eyes of the entire room on him, Amita's, Larry's, his father's – his ears were starting to roar. '_Stay in control_,' a part of his mind commanded him, desperately, but he could see Morgan's eyes on him, feel his hands…Thoughts whirled through the mist of fear and humiliation – the words of advice and encouragement he'd received from his friends and family, and he grabbed at them mentally, frantically trying to latch on something to fight the panic. Their faces appeared in his mind, their voices jumbling together in his head. '_I know it's hard - you must participate in the game – take it one step at a time – you have more backbone than anyone I know – you've been feeling like a victim – today's your day to fight back…_' Along with the voices were the eyes – the eyes of the victims' families staring at him, begging him to make it right – and somewhere, from deep in his soul, came a sudden sense of resolve.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and looked directly at the jury. "It's true. I wasn't raped, but he undressed me and touched me – inappropriately - during the assault in Denver." His eyes flickered nervously to his father and Amita – just as he had feared they looked horrified, but he firmly turned his eyes back to Parker. It was out – it was done, and somehow, oddly, it seemed to lift a load from his shoulders.

The gleam in Parker's eye faded just a bit. He'd felt that Eppes was close to some kind of breakdown for a moment, but he seemed to have collected himself, at least somewhat. "Now, I am sure the jury is wondering why you would have left out something so damning to the defendant," he said to Charlie, in an indulgent, condescending tone. "I think we've established you weren't fully healed when the Bureau forced you to make your statement. I'm sure you were confused, weren't you?"

Charlie looked Parker directly in the eye. "No. I wasn't confused. I simply wished for some privacy. I didn't want to press that particular charge."

Parker felt his gut lurch a bit – this was not going at all well. He'd hoped this would be the final blow to the professor's composure, but if anything, the young man had seemed to gather strength. He shot a glance at the jury, and gave a soft amazed snort. "Why on earth not, Professor? You didn't want the kidnapper to get his due? I find that hard to believe. Perhaps your own subliminal guilt over selecting the wrong man made you change your story."

"I didn't change my story." Charlie's voice was quiet, but it was strengthening. "I left that particular piece out, but I didn't change the remainder – there's a difference. I've already explained why – I didn't want to go through the public humiliation – but then, you've gone and dragged me through it anyway, haven't you? As far as Morgan not getting his due – he's facing multiple counts of rape from other victims, along with multiple accounts of torture, murder, and kidnapping." Charlie's gaze turned steely, and his voice hardened. "Don't you think that's enough?" He swept his hand toward the victims' families. "I know they do."

Parker's mouth dropped open and he stared back, for the first time in the trial at a loss for words. Behind him, Charlie could see Don, Colby, David and Phelps all grinning broadly, and on the other side of the court, Amita and his father were smiling through tears, and Larry was beaming – his hands nowhere near his face. Their expressions were reflected in the faces of the victims' families; and Amber Peterson's father, a big beefy blond-haired man, actually let loose with a hissed "_Yes!"_

More disquieting was Morgan's expression, his countenance twisted with hate, but suddenly, Charlie felt as though he could handle that now. In that brief instant, he'd taken back control; he'd reclaimed his life.

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End Chapter 56


	57. Chapter 57

_A/N: It's a rare day when I don't get a chance to get on my home computer, but yesterday was one of them. I need to take a moment to thank you very humbly for your reviews - I read each and every one of them._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 57**

The trial went on for two days longer. Charlie had stayed on the stand for Phelps' redirect, during which he reiterated that he was of sound mind when he identified Morgan. Phelps had submitted the video of Charlie's identification of Morgan as evidence, but hadn't used it when it became clear that Charlie was going to testify. Since it was already approved, however, he pulled it out now to show the jury that Charlie's identification had been immediate, without doubt. At the end of it, the jury looked thoughtful, but Phelps couldn't read anything into their expressions. He had no idea whether Parker had been successful in making them doubt Charlie's testimony.

Parker did his best to cast further doubt by calling the Allison Cook to the stand, and forcing her to admit that she hadn't recognized Ryan Morgan in his disguise when he attacked her. He also submitted a video of his own; an interview with the old alcoholic hotel owner in Albuquerque, who was unable to pick Morgan out from a group of pictures. Parker declined to put Morgan himself on the stand, and Phelps didn't blame him. Phelps had seen the deranged look on the killer's face when he looked at Charlie; had seen the irrational absence of fear in the man's eyes even though he found himself in a dire situation. Morgan obviously thought himself above the law, was devoid of penitence, and was still obviously obsessed with the one living victim – not exactly behavior that would play well with a jury, even if Morgan managed to say the right things.

By agreement on both sides, the submission of the gloves, along with Colby's and the lab's testimony was left for the end - Phelps wanted to leave the jury with a last impression, and Parker wanted to have time to prepare a defense. Parker did his best to cast doubts on the gloves, but he knew they were damning and undid many of his earlier insinuations that the Bureau had incomplete or inaccurate evidence. Colby Granger, unfortunately for Morgan and Parker, was also good on the stand; his understated down-home demeanor played well with the jury. That testimony opened the final day of the trial, and the remainder of the morning was given to the closing statements by the prosecution and the defense. When they broke for lunch, the judge instructed the jury to start their deliberations after the noon meal. The earliest they would reconvene would be the next morning, if the jury arrived at verdict.

Like the first day of the trial, the entire group congregated at the Craftsman that evening, this time for pizza. Alan had set things up outside again, mainly because there wasn't room to seat everyone inside, and the guests wandered around in the soft summer twilight with pizza in one hand and beer or wine in the other. Charlie was quiet; they all were, but Charlie hardly spoke two words all evening, restlessly roaming the yard, hovering on the edge of a conversation here or there, drifting in the house, out to the garage, back to the koi pond, like a wayward planet in a lopsided orbit. He looked exhausted, Don thought to himself, as if he'd been existing on adrenaline during the trial, and was fresh out, but he wouldn't, or couldn't sit.

The revelations at the trial had been extremely difficult on Alan; the news that his son had been subject to inappropriate handling, on top of everything else, had nearly put him over the edge. At the start of the evening he'd vented to Don in the kitchen; both of them thinking Charlie was in his room, but Charlie had pushed through the kitchen door part way through the discussion, and although he didn't say anything, they both knew he had heard some of it. Don knew Charlie was still uncomfortable with the subject, and surmised that his constant movement was a way of avoiding conversation that might lead to it – especially conversation with Amita. She kept trailing Charlie around the yard, but every time she drew near, he took off again for another part of the property. Don had half a mind to go tell him to stop it – to give her a chance to talk, and he'd made up his mind to do just that when his phone rang.

It was set to loud so he could hear it over the conversations; and the strident tone made everyone's head come up. He glanced at the number and looked up at them. "Phelps," he said. His voice was only loud enough for those closest to him to hear, but the remainder could tell by their rapt attention that this was the call, and they drifted closer as Don answered the phone. Charlie came forward, and stood and stared at him from three yards away, his feet rooted to the ground, eyes dark in a face made paler by the gathering gloom.

"Okay," said Don into the phone. "Thanks." He flipped it shut, and looked up, his expression a bit disconcerted. "That was Phelps. They reached a verdict, about a half hour ago. They'll deliver it first thing in the morning."

"Wow," said Megan, "that was fast."

David nodded. "I expected them to be out for at least a couple of days."

Charlie spoke, breaking his silence. "Is that good?"

They all looked at him, and Alan could see vestiges of fear and uncertainty on his face. The possibility that Morgan could get off, which was something that Alan had up until then steadfastly refused to consider, reared its ugly head, and his heart contracted.

"I don't know," said Don simply. They looked back at him silently, as the last bit of sun dipped below the horizon.

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The next morning, Ryan Morgan stepped into the restroom with his suit, and stood while the guard unlocked his handcuffs and leg irons. He then stepped into a stall to change. Each day of the trial, it had been a ritual for him to change out of the jumpsuit at a secluded restroom in the courthouse basement. From the start, he'd made it a habit to go into a stall, close the door, urinate, and change. The first day the guard had argued a bit half-heartedly that Morgan had to change in front of him, but when Ryan argued back that it made sense for him to relieve himself before sitting in court all morning, the guard had reluctantly agreed. It had become habit, and the guard never questioned it again. It was important, because this morning, Ryan needed the privacy.

He stepped carefully out of his jumpsuit and retrieved the shank from the leg of the pants, along with the pick for the handcuffs, where they had been tucked into the front hem of the left leg, before dropping the jumpsuit casually on the floor. If he hadn't had the manacles on when he came in through the entrance, he would never have gotten the shank into the courthouse; the metal detector had gone off when they waved it over his legs, but the guards assumed the leg irons were the sole cause – the detector went off every morning because of them.

He ran a quick hand over the shank – it was a cylindrical piece of metal, slightly smaller than the diameter of a pencil, and about eight inches in length. One end had been flattened and sharpened to a nearly razor-like edge; otherwise, it was smooth, incapable of cutting. A one-half inch section on the other end had been bent at a right angle, to give the user something to push against when he drove it home. As a weapon it was marginal, unless one were to stab with it, and even then would require a direct hit to the heart, the brain, or the jugular to be deadly. It was all he had, however, and in the event of a guilty verdict, Morgan fully intended to make the attempt. He would not go to prison – he would escape, or he would die, but he would not go to prison. If he was lucky, and he got off, he'd never have to use it.

He relieved himself, then dressed, wrapping the handcuff pick in a bit of toilet paper and pocketing it in his pants. Before putting on his dress shirt, he pushed the shank down into a small hole he'd made on the inside of the sleeve. About three inches of it stuck out inside the sleeve; it would be easy to reach into the sleeve and access it later. He put on his jacket and shook his arm a bit, to make sure the shank stayed put, then stepped out and held his hands out for the guard to reapply his handcuffs. He was ready.

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Don, Charlie, David, and Colby pushed through the last of the reporters at the door to the courthouse. The media people were teeming around the outside of the entrance; all of the big networks were there. The word was out that the jury had come to a verdict, after only a few hours of deliberation. This morning, however, the group didn't stop in the prosecutor's office; they made straight for the courtroom.

Charlie's eyes went automatically up to the front of the room, but although Parker was there, Morgan wasn't in place yet – they were a little early. He breathed a small sigh of relief, and looked across to the victims' section to see his father, Amita, and Larry; and Alan gave him a small encouraging smile. Charlie could have sat with them, but then he would have bumped another person from their seat, so instead he stayed where he had been for most of the trial, seated next to his older brother in the row behind the prosecution. Roger Phelps turned and gave them a nod.

It wasn't long before Morgan entered, and his eyes immediately searched out Charlie, who looked away. It was the last time he'd have to look at the man, Charlie told himself, unless he decided to come back for the sentencing. He wasn't sure yet if he would, or not. If Morgan were found guilty, he would face at least life in prison, and more than likely, the death penalty. Either way, he would be where Charlie would never have to see him again, never have to look into those poisonous blue eyes…

The jury filed in, and everyone's gaze went immediately to them; trying to read the verdict in their expressions. Charlie was searching their faces when the bailiff's voice made him jump; he was announcing the entrance of Judge Vasquez, and the court rose to its feet. Vasquez brought the court into session, and requested them to sit. There was the collective noise of people shifting and lowering themselves into chairs, but not another sound, not a word. Everyone was waiting the outcome of the trial expectantly, anxiously.

"Will the foreman of the jury please stand?" requested Vasquez.

The foreman, a bland-looking thin man with spectacles, rose holding a sheet. Charlie could feel his heart pounding – this was it – God, this was it. What if Morgan got off? He felt dizzy, suddenly, and swayed a little, but Don's grip on his arm grounded him enough to get control of his breathing, although his heart still thumped painfully. They exchanged a glance, the two pairs of dark eyes meeting wordlessly, and they turned as Vasquez asked, "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, your Honor," replied the foreman.

"Please deliver your verdict to the court. The court may be seated for the reading of the charges."

The instruction to be seated was a departure from the norm, a nod to the length of the verdict, and the many charges that needed to be read. The foreman cleared his throat, announced the case, and began. Sentencing would be only for the victims in California; the Federal Government had no death penalty, so although the case was being supported by the Bureau, it was being tried by the California District Attorney, under California law, so the death penalty could be applied. Although the case had covered all of the Bureau's knowledge of Morgan's misdeeds, in various states, he would need to be tried and sentenced separately for the Seattle murders in the state of Washington. That might or might not be necessary, depending on the outcome of the trial in L.A. The charges were read in the order they had been given to the jury, starting with the unknown victim found in the reservoir. "For the charge of the kidnapping of Jane Doe, we find the defendant not guilty."

There was a collected intake of breath from the courtroom, and Charlie looked at Don wildly. Don's jaw had tightened, but he shook his head, indicating for Charlie to stay calm, and listen. Their case was the shakiest on Jane Doe, both from a timing and evidence standpoint.

"For the charge of aggravated assault of Jane Doe, we find the defendant not guilty."

Charlie could feel his gut twisting with each announcement as the foreman read the rape and murder charges for Jane Doe. The mother of one of the victims let out a low moan at the first reading, and Charlie glanced over at the victims' families. On their faces and in their postures he could read anything from despair to anger, and he could feel nausea and a cold fear rising in his gut. The next victim, Cookie Myers, would set the stage for the remaining victims. She had been raped, and they had Morgan's DNA in that case. The question in everyone's mind was, had Parker thrown enough doubt on the Bureau's handling of the case for the jury to believe that evidence?

"For the charge of the kidnapping of Constance Myers, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

A low sound came from the court, a combination of murmurs, exclamations, sighs of relief. Charlie let out a shaky breath, and felt his eyes sting with moisture. '_Thank God_,' he thought, as he looked over at the families to his left. '_Thank God_.' He felt a squeeze on his arm, and glanced up to see Don looking at him, relief and victory in his eyes.

"For the charge of aggravated assault of Constance Myers, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

Ryan Morgan sat staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched. He'd known, logically, that he had to be ready for this, but he truly had not been prepared mentally to hear it. He heard his mother's intake of breath behind him, and he ground his teeth. Without turning, he could see the look on his father's face. His father had never liked him much, and had almost refused to support his defense – only the steadfast proclamation of his innocence by his mother had convinced his father to come to his aid. Now his father's suspicions were verified, and his mother would be devastated. He would be facing at minimum, life in prison. How had it come to this?

"For the charge of rape and sexual battery of Constance Myers, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

Alan felt tears welling in his eyes, and went wobbly with relief. Next to him, Amita was smiling shakily, wiping away tears of her own. Relief was on Larry face, also, who had been staring at the foreman with an uncharacteristically intense expression. He glanced at Amita with a tiny smile.

"For the charge of murder in the first degree of Constance Myers, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

As the foreman read on through the list of victims and charges, the families began to display small signs of emotion, silent pats on the back and handshakes of congratulations, head nods; quick squeezes. Mike Shire silently wiped tears of relief from his face. The reporters were scribbling furiously; noting the charges, the reactions of the families. The court fell silent again as the foreman reached the charges concerning Charles Eppes.

Charlie could feel the eyes of everyone on him as the first charge was read. "For the charge of kidnapping of Charles Eppes, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

He could feel Don's arm come around his shoulders, giving him a squeeze, but Charlie's eyes, for the first time in the trial, were purposely on Ryan Morgan, standing a few feet away and one row up, on Charlie's left. He could see the killer's profile; Morgan was staring straight ahead, his face like stone.

"For the charge of aggravated assault on Charles Eppes, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

Morgan's jaw twitched and his head turned to look at the young man in the row behind him, to his right. Charlie was gazing back at him, head held high, finally strong, finally the victor – Morgan's obsession, and his undoing.

"For two counts of attempted murder on Charles Eppes, we find the defendant guilty as charged."

For a four long seconds, they stared at each other; their eyes locked, and then Morgan turned his face to the front of the courtroom. The reading of the verdict had made it clear - he knew what he had to do, and the professor would be either his ticket to freedom, or the cause of his death. If it came to that, Morgan knew, he would take Eppes with him. If he couldn't have him, he would make sure that no one else would.

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End Chapter 57

_A/N:_ _This story is rapidly drawing to a close - I'm on Chapter 60 right now, and I think it will be the last. First though, there is more action and yes, a final whump. How final - and who - is the question?_


	58. Chapter 58

_A/N - just had to do it - had to get in one more whump..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 58**

The foreman was finishing the counts against him when Morgan reached into his pocket, pulled out the bit of tissue and took a two-handed swipe at his nose. The cuffs made that move awkward and noticeable; he made a show of wiping his nose, then dabbed at a corner of his eye, making sure the guards had seen his movements, watching them relax as they realized he was just going for an innocuous clump of toilet paper. He waited until their eyes moved back to the foreman, then he lowered his hands below the defense table, extricated the pick from the wad of tissue and quietly unlocked the handcuffs, leaving them loosely on his wrists. Parker, who was seated next to him, was oblivious to the move, his eyes hooded, his jaw set. He had already indicated to Morgan that he was going to appeal, but Morgan knew that his lawyer would never have that opportunity. He laid a hand on his sleeve and slowly began to work the shank free, and once it was, let it slide down into his palm, still concealed by the sleeve of his jacket, and looked up as Judge Vasquez spoke.

"And this is the consensus of the jury?"

"Yes, it is, your Honor, unanimously."

Vasquez looked at Morgan. "Will the defendant please stand?" Morgan rose slowly to his feet, taking care not to dislodge the cuffs, and Vasquez continued. "The defendant will remain in custody without bail until the date of sentencing. The jury will return to deliberations to address the sentences for these crimes."

He looked at the jury. "Be advised that under United States penal code as administrated in the State of California, the suspect is subject to the death penalty for the murder charges. You will recommend a sentence for each of the crimes, which I will take under my consideration. This court is adjourned for the day."

He banged his gavel, and the court erupted as he rose from the bench and made his way out of the room. The already crowded room seemed to become more packed as exuberant family members rose from their chairs, moving around to congratulate each other, and the press joined the commotion, using the added noise and movement to sneak in a few questions.

Charlie exchanged a wide grin and a fierce embrace with Don and received claps on the back from Colby and David, a smile from Liz, then a hearty hand pump from Phelps as he moved to his left, into the aisle separating his side from the side that contained his father. He could see Alan, Amita, and Larry trying to wade through the crowd to reach him, and he stepped forward, trying to move across the aisle toward them, but reporters were pushing up through the aisle, forcing him back toward the front of the courtroom. The bailiffs and guards were trying to restore order, but the room was charged with a celebratory atmosphere, as weeks of grief and tension were released. One guard was standing near Morgan, while others were trying to clear a path through to the side door, so they could remove him from the room.

The reporters didn't care at this point whether their trial privileges would be revoked; it was one of the biggest trials of the past fifty years, and it was over except for the sentencing, so they were blatantly disregarding the rules concerning questioning the participants; and moving in for what they hoped would be exclusive scoops. Charlie was a natural target, and as they bore down on him in the crowded aisle, he decided to retreat to the front of the courtroom and cross over to his father that way, hoping they wouldn't follow him past the legal tables. He had assumed that they had removed Morgan through the side door already, and as he pushed through the taller bodies surrounding him, he was shocked to see that Morgan was still standing there, only three feet away.

Morgan, with his height advantage, had been able to see Charlie making his way up the center aisle. Ryan had originally thought to bolt toward him, but the crowd had made that impossible. The professor's movements, however, were closing the distance, bringing him within striking range. Morgan paused, waiting for a moment, pretending to listen to Parker outline preliminary meeting times to discuss his appeal, as Charlie drew closer. Even when Eppes came out from the press of humanity around him and finally saw him, Morgan didn't move – he stood still, and waited like a spider in a web, motionlessly in front of the defense table.

Colby and David had exited their row to the right, and had come up the far right side of the courtroom, trying to help the security guards clear people away so Morgan could be moved. Amber Peterson's father was standing over there, righteous anger on his face, obviously waiting for Morgan to pass, and David was sidetracked for a moment, trying to move the beefy, red-faced man toward the back of the room, and through the exit doors.

Colby saw reporters and others in the crowd beginning to spill into the front of the courtroom from the far left side, so he moved that way to head them off, ascending the stairs to the platform and crossing behind the witness box and the judge's chair. Two reporters started to argue and shove; the mood in the room was changing, and things were getting out of hand.

Charlie had frozen for a moment as he saw Morgan, but the man didn't move; he stood with a guard on one side, Parker speaking to him on the other, and Charlie saw clear space around him, a few yards between Morgan and the platform. He put his head down and took a wide berth, skirting the platform, headed for the far side of the room. As he passed the judge's desk, he could see Colby up on the platform behind it, moving the same direction as he was, across the room. Colby was slightly ahead of him; his back to Charlie.

Morgan waited until Charlie was in the clear before he moved; free of the people around him and directly in front of him in the open space. With a lightening-fast flick of the wrist, he slipped off the open cuffs, and grabbing the shank with one hand and the cuffs with the other, thrust the end of one of the cuffs at the guard's face with a clawing motion. The open curved end sank into the startled man's eye, and he screamed, staggering backwards with his hands on his face, the cuffs still hanging from his eye socket as Parker involuntarily took a stunned step backwards.

Morgan didn't wait to observe the results of his attack – he lunged immediately forward, closing the two or three yards between him and Charlie with two long strides. Charlie had turned and stopped momentarily in shock as the guard cried out, and he immediately whirled back to dash toward the side of the room as he saw Morgan heading toward him, but the killer was already too close. As Charlie sprang, Morgan's hand closed on the back of his neck, grabbing a handful of jacket and shirt, and the killer yanked Charlie toward him. A woman screamed; Charlie stumbled, off-balance, and Morgan yanked again, pulling him up against him, wrapping a strong arm around his neck. Morgan immediately whirled to face the crowd with Charlie in front of him, his back to the platform, and pushed the point of the shank up against the side of Charlie's head. Charlie was struggling, clawing at his arm, but he still had his cast on one wrist, making it difficult to grasp with that hand, and he was still not up to full strength.

Morgan tightened his grip, holding Charlie's head motionless, and inserted the shank into his ear. Two of the more intrepid reporters in front had started forward, Don Eppes was barging up behind them, and Morgan screamed at them as he began to retreat up the stairs that ascended the platform. "Back off! Back off or I'll shove this right into his skull!"

Charlie's eyes widened; he gasped at the knifelike pain in his ear and immediately stopped struggling; each little movement sent dizzying pain deep in his head. He moved with Morgan, trying to keep his upper body still, backing with him up the steps, trying to overcome the viselike fear that gripped his chest and restricted his breathing.

Colby had almost reached the end of the platform and was about to step off as the guard screamed, but he whirled around in time to see Morgan grab Charlie. He immediately ran back the way he had come, crouching, ducking behind the judge's desk. He couldn't see them, but they couldn't see him either. He shot a quick glance over the top of the desk; he could see that Morgan had an arm around Charlie's neck, but he couldn't get a clear look, and he ducked back down quickly, as Morgan shot a glance behind him and began to back up the steps. They were feet away, separated only by the desk.

Don had begun to follow Charlie up the aisle, but he'd been sidetracked by Phelps, and the reporters had closed in between them. He could see that Charlie was making for the front of the room, and he could see Morgan still there. Although Morgan was in restraints and the room was full of people, Don still was wary of the situation, and he moved after Charlie, trying to catch up. He was still trapped behind at least three reporters who were also following Charlie, when Morgan made his move. Don surged forward with two of the reporters; he could hear Amita scream to his left as the killer inserted what looked like a metal pick in his brother's ear. He heard Morgan yell for them to stay back, saw Colby dash back across the platform and duck behind the judge's desk; all of it happened in seconds. The reporters in front of him froze, as did the people in the court behind Don, and he pushed between the two newsmen with his hands up, showing Morgan they were empty.

"I said, 'back off!'" growled Morgan. "There's nothing between this shank and his brain except cartilage and a thin piece of bone, and I swear I'll drive it home. Stay where you are."

Don froze. Charlie's eyes were closed tightly in pain, and Don knew Morgan had them in a precarious situation. If the shank had been merely pressed against Charlie's neck, they could hope to push it aside, but with the end of it lodged in Charlie's outer ear, the chance of knocking it away was less – in fact, the attack itself might cause the shank to be accidentally thrust deeper. Morgan had used his knowledge of anatomy to his advantage.

The thought barely had time to register when he saw Colby creeping around the edge of the desk, and he saw his legs bunch underneath him. Colby was getting ready to charge them, he realized suddenly, with his heart in his throat. From his spot behind the desk, Colby couldn't see the position of the shank, didn't know his charge could cause Morgan to jam it inadvertently deep into Charlie's skull…

Charlie took a deep, gasping breath, trying to fight down the pain and the fear, the unbearable feeling of Morgan's arm around his neck, Morgan's body against his. The thought-warping terror that had initially consumed him had receded enough for him to be able to think – not entirely coherently, but enough to realize he could not allow Morgan to leave the courtroom. He would not be a means of the man's escape, he decided – Morgan could not be allowed to kill more innocent people. If the killer managed to get out of the building by using him as a hostage, his own life would be forfeit anyway, and he would be facing a much worse death than the swift one the shank would provide. He opened his eyes. He would watch for a move from Don, and do what he could to help, regardless of what that would prompt Morgan to do – even if it meant his own death…

"Colby, no!" Don yelled, and he leapt forward himself, trying to head him off. At the same time, Charlie's eyes flew open, and he interpreted Don's movement as an attempt to apprehend the killer. Morgan was moving again, backing up from what he also read as an attack, and Charlie took a deep breath and jammed a foot between Morgan's ankles. Morgan started to stumble, his grip instinctively released, but not before he had pulled Charlie with him, and they both went down, Colby hitting them from the side, just as Don reached them. Don, realizing that Colby wasn't stopping, kept moving, trying to reach for Charlie and pull him away, but Morgan's stumble made both him and Colby miscalculate; they hit too low, and Morgan's and Charlie's legs went out from under them; the whole group colliding and crashing down the steps. There were two ugly-sounding cracks; and as Colby and Don scrambled to their feet, they saw both Charlie and Morgan, lying motionless. Charlie was on his back, eyes closed, part of the shank protruding from an ear that was dripping blood. Morgan was also lying motionless, but his eyes were open, glazed with shock, his head at an unnatural angle, his breath rasping.

Complete silence fell for a moment; then someone screamed, "Get an ambulance!"

Don came to his senses, falling on his knees next to Charlie, but Colby still stood, rooted in shock at the sight of the shank protruding from Charlie's head. Alan pushed through the crowd, followed by Amita and Larry, as Liz and David came from the right side of the room, all of them stunned by the sight. Don's gut contracted; he had no idea how long the shank was, how much was inside his brother's head, and he fumbled for a pulse, taking an unsteady breath as he found one. "He's got a pulse," he managed, and lifted his head, looking through the crowd, which had now begun to funnel out through the doors. The horrible scene had put an effective end to their celebration, and they followed the guards' instructions meekly. The guard who had been injured by Morgan had already been ferried to the back of the room; he lay curled on the floor, taut with pain, a hand over his eye.

A rattling gasp came from behind him and Don turned to see Morgan. No one dared touch him; judging from the odd angle of his head, his neck was broken, and that was reinforced by the realization that his body was motionless, his breathing shallow and labored. He was still conscious, however, his baleful blue eyes on Charlie; and as Don turned, Morgan raised them to Don's stricken face, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "If I can't – have him – you can't - either," he gasped out, the words breathy, barely intelligible, and they faded as he panted, the faint smile still frozen in a twisted mask of defiant triumph, drool running down his cheek. Don stared back as if transfixed, and then jerked his eyes back to Charlie, pale and lifeless on the floor.

It seemed to take forever, but finally medical technicians were coming into the room. The guards had finally been successful at removing most of the people from the courtroom, and in fact, most of them were now outside the building, some of them already speaking to reporters. It had been tough for the ambulances to get close to the building, but LAPD had stepped in and began clearing the crowds away, allowing the emergency personnel to get in.

They quickly checked the vitals of both Charlie and Morgan, and put Morgan's head and shoulders in a stabilizing brace before they lifted him onto a backboard, to which they strapped him before lifting him onto the gurney. Morgan was gasping in earnest now, his blue eyes open again, protruded and staring, and they got a bag on him, and started pumping air into his lungs as they finished stabilizing him for transport.

Another team was working on Charlie in the meanwhile, carefully stabilizing him also by strapping him to a board, but they couldn't use the conventional neck brace they used for possible head and neck injuries because of the shank protruding from his ear. Charlie was still motionless, lifeless, and Don's heart sank further the longer he remained that way. They lifted Charlie onto the gurney, and Don rose to his feet, his eyes meeting Alan's, filled with fear, with despair. After all of the struggle, after finally triumphing, it had been snatched away – what should have been a victory for Charlie had turned into something frightening – something they couldn't even comprehend the depth of yet, without knowing the damage.

The medics began to move the gurney and one of them scanned the group. "One of you can come in the ambulance," he said, and Don gave Alan a nod.

"Go with him, Dad," he said, and Alan looked at him; unmitigated fear in his face, and nodded back, before turning to follow the ambulance.

Don just stood there, along with the rest of them, his team, Jill Cash and Mike Shire, Larry, Amita – all of them rendered motionless by shock. He numbly saw them wheeling Morgan out, wondering if the killer had been right when he said he'd taken Charlie from them, wondering if he'd won after all.

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End Chapter 58


	59. Chapter 59

_A/N: No one can say I've been skimping on the chapter length in this story. The last two are longer than normal, but I have a lot of ground to cover here. _

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 59**

Colby looked at Don, and slumped in the waiting room chair. "You said 'no!' I thought you said 'Colby, go!'" He ran a despondent hand over his face, then put his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. The rest of the team looked at him, and Don spoke. "You couldn't have known – you couldn't see the shank from where you where."

Colby's only response was a muttered expletive, muffled by his hands. He groaned, sighed deeply, sat up straight. Even though it had been accidental, he couldn't get over the fact that he might have caused Charlie serious harm, maybe even… He couldn't think it, although he knew from the white, pinched look on Don's face that his SAC was – thinking the unthinkable – that after all of this, they might lose Charlie. The thought was on Alan and Amita's minds, too, he could tell. He could see them across the aisle, sitting in another part of the waiting area at Cedars Sinai – there weren't chairs enough for them all in one spot. They were both staring at the floor, dumb with fear, while Fleinhardt babbled nervously to them – whether to comfort them or Larry himself, Colby couldn't tell. Seated with Colby were Don, Liz, and David, along with Jill Cash and Mike Shire. Megan was on her way to the hospital; she'd gotten the okay to leave the office from Wright, who was busy himself readying a press release, with Phelps.

Colby glanced to his right, and Liz gave him a small sympathetic smile; more of a quick grimace than anything pleasant, although he could see compassion in her eyes. David spoke up. "It wasn't your fault, man. You weren't the one who attacked him – Morgan was."

It was small comfort, Colby thought to himself. He glanced down the hallway as the double doors opened to the ER bays, and caught a glimpse of the LAPD officers stationed outside the bay that held Morgan. There had been no word yet on either Morgan or Charlie, and they'd been there a half hour already. Morgan's parents were there, too, across the aisle in the section with Alan, Amita and Larry, but closer to the ER doors – as far away as they could remove themselves from the others and still stay in the waiting area. Morgan's mother was crying, but his father simply looked grim, occasionally shooting a guilty glance in Alan's direction. Colby had gotten the impression all along that the man was suspicious of his own son, and now those suspicions had been confirmed. It had to be an awful feeling, and extremely uncomfortable for them to be sitting there, in the same vicinity as Charlie's family and friends. Maybe even more uncomfortable than Colby felt now, although he found that hard to fathom.

It was another forty minutes before a doctor came out, looked around and said, "Ryan Morgan."

Morgan's parents rose and the doctor crossed over to talk to them. Mrs. Morgan started crying harder; but she'd been such a nonstop source of tears, no one could tell whether they were tears of relief or sorrow. Mr. Morgan's dour expression didn't change; he simply nodded, then spoke to the doctor with a slight nod of his head toward the agents. The doctor nodded back, turned, and walked toward Don and his team, watched closely by Alan, Amita, and Larry.

The team stood as he approached, and the doctor addressed Don, who had stepped forward slightly. "I'm looking for the agent in charge."

"That's me." Don didn't extend a hand. "Agent Don Eppes."

The doctor acknowledged him with a nod. "The family gave me authorization to tell you. Ryan Morgan died in the ER moments ago, of a broken neck. The top of his spinal cord fractured at the base of the skull – not a complete separation, but the chances of recovery from that kind of break are slim. He experienced massive swelling in the brain stem area – there was really nothing we could do."

The other agents and Mike Shire glanced at each other, but Don's face remained impassive. "Are they giving us permission to give information to the press?"

The doctor shook his head and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "You'll have to ask them that. They didn't say. I'm going to bring them back to view him. If you want to come over with me to ask them, be my guest."

Don nodded and gave his team a glance, and then walked over to the Morgans. "The doctor gave us the news," Don said quietly. He didn't offer his sympathy, but he kept his voice quiet, respectful. "I need to know if you'll authorize release of information to the press."

Morgan senior nodded. "Yes. Go ahead." As Don turned to go, he said, "Agent -," and Don looked back at him. Morgan's face was infused with guilt and pain – yet another victim who would have to live with the consequences of his son's actions. "I'm sorry, Agent – for what he did. I still can't understand it – we weren't permissive, he had all the advantages, the best schooling…I don't know why…," His voice cracked, and he lowered his head.

Don looked at them; they both appeared broken. Mrs. Morgan was still weeping quietly, and Don said, "I've dealt with serial killers before. The vast majority of the time there's no good reason for them turning out the way they did – their brains are just wired wrong."

Mr. Morgan lifted his head, a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes, but Don had said all he was going to say – all he was capable of; he was still filled with anger toward Morgan, chafing inwardly at the unfairness of it all. He wasn't about to tell the man it was okay – it wasn't. His brother was lying in a hospital emergency room once again, possibly facing death or permanent disability because of Ryan Morgan. It was not okay.

Across the room, the agents watched as Don walked over to Alan, Larry, and Amita to give them the news. Colby glanced at the others, and noticed Liz was looking at him wide-eyed. "Jeez, Granger," she said, "When you say you're going to rip someone's head off, you don't mess around."

His mouth twisted at the comment, and as Don walked back up to them, he shook his head with bewilderment. "I still don't know how it happened. I figured Morgan had something in his hand, but I didn't know it was in Charlie's ear. I was going to come in low and push upward on Morgan's arms. The next thing I knew I'd connected with their legs and they were flipping right over the top of me."

Don spoke up. "It wasn't your fault." His face was grim, and set like stone, but the others could see the misery in his eyes. "Charlie tripped him. He looked up and saw me coming, and I could tell – he'd made up his mind. Just as we got to them, he stuck his foot in between Morgan's ankles and tripped him."

David looked stunned. "But Charlie had to have known that he could have been killed."

"Oh, he knew," Don said quietly. "I could see it in his eyes. He knew, but he did it anyway. If anyone killed Morgan, it was Charlie." The others were staring at him, but he suddenly felt exhausted, as if his legs wouldn't hold him up any longer. He stepped past them without another word, and sat, his eyes on the double doors that led to the ER. He'd seen the way Morgan had looked at Charlie all through the trial – had read obsession on the man's face. He never should have let Charlie get close to him – Charlie never should have been faced with having to forfeit his life so a killer would not go free. Regardless of the fact that Charlie was his brother, Don was lead agent on the case – it was his job to make sure witnesses could testify in safety, and not have to worry about attacks from the suspect. The fact was; if it was anyone's fault, it was his.

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It was another hour before a second doctor appeared. By that time, Megan had arrived. Some others in the waiting area had gone, and the agents had moved across the aisle to where the others were sitting. They all congregated in an anxious, restless group. Megan got a quiet update from Larry. Jill Cash and Amita exchanged glances and looked away. Colby sighed and rubbed his forehead, and David clapped him on the shoulder. Don and Alan sat grimly side by side, both of them straightening as a doctor pushed through the doors to the ER bays. "Charles Eppes?" he asked, but even as he asked it, he moved toward them, as the group rose.

He scanned the faces in front of him. "Is there family present?"

Alan stepped forward. "Yes. I'm his father, and this is his brother, Don."

The doctor extended his hand, and shook Alan's. "Dr. Simon, from Neurology. Come with me, please."

Alan and Don gave the others a fleeting glance as they followed. Don could see the uncertainty on everyone's face – was the doctor pulling them aside because it was protocol, or because the news was especially traumatic? The doctor gave them no clue as he walked briskly back through the doors, into a small office just inside them. On the walls were X-rays and scans, some illuminated by screens, all of them head views. Charlie's head. Don felt his legs wobble suddenly, and he cast around for a chair, settling into one next to Alan, whose face looked chalky.

There was another doctor in the room, and Dr. Simon introduced him. "This Dr. Lipton, our resident ear expert. How do you refer to the patient – Charles?"

"Charlie," said Alan. The name came out automatically, almost without conscious thought. His heart was pounding, and his ears were roaring. It was amazing that he got the name out at all, actually.

"Let me first tell you that Charlie is doing fairly well, considering. He's still unconscious, and has a relatively serious concussion. I'll expand on that a little more later, but first I'm sure you'd like to know about his ear." Don and Alan looked at each other.

Dr. Lipton stepped up to one of the X-rays and pointed. "The metal rod - I'll call it a shiv, because it appears that's what it was – penetrated his ear, and did lacerate the ear canal and put a slit in his ear drum. There is a chance it did some damage to the tiny bones behind the eardrum, or perhaps displaced them. When you consider how bad it could have been, however, the damage is fairly minimal."

Don stared at the X-ray. "No brain damage?"

Dr. Lipton shook his head. "No, not from this. In fact, it didn't even hit the inner ear. He was extremely lucky; I understand he fell while this was in his ear. It could have easily been much worse. It's too soon to tell, but there's a chance he may not even have permanent hearing loss, although he will experience some temporary difficulties. I expect the eardrum to heal without issue, and as long as the bones were not disturbed, his hearing should come back to close to 100 percent. We'll know more after a few weeks."

Dr. Simon spoke up. "What we're actually more concerned about is the concussion; he apparently hit the back of his head on an edge of some type – perhaps a step or the edge of a table?"

"A step," said Don. His heart, which had been in his throat, slid out of the way long just enough for him to utter the response. No brain damage. He swallowed, and his heart stayed put, although it was still beating rapidly. He forced his mind back to what the doctor was saying.

"According to the scans, it looks like it should just be a moderate concussion, but because he hasn't become conscious yet, we're watching him closely – we want to make sure there's nothing else developing, such as a subdural hematoma. Barring that, though, he should wake up eventually – with a splitting headache and some nausea, but all things considered, he actually came out of this fairly well. We've put him in a room – you can go up to see him if you like."

Alan could say nothing for a moment – he just stared at the man. After all the horrible things that had happened over the past few weeks, he had prepared himself for the worst. He didn't even feel relief – not yet – none of it had apparently sunk in. He rose to his feet automatically when Don did, shaking the doctors' hands, and trudged out behind Don, with a stunned look on his face. Don looked at him curiously. "You okay, Dad?" he asked quietly.

Alan looked at him, closed his mouth, and then opened it again, speaking in a tone of wonderment. "Yeah – I think – I think I am."

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Don studied his brother's face. It was two hours later, and Charlie was still out. Don and Alan had been sitting in his room since their conversation with the doctor; they'd gone out and broken the news to the others, and then had gone up immediately. Although the doctor had put Charlie in a standard room and not the ICU, because Charlie hadn't awakened they had him on a higher level of surveillance, and had limited visitors to just the immediate family. When Alan informed the group of that, Amita had looked a bit disappointed, but her relief that Charlie was all right apparently overwhelmed all other feelings – as it did for all of them. When Colby got the news, he had sat down hard, suddenly, in a chair – the release of anxiety was so great it momentarily robbed his legs of strength. As Don looked at their faces, some tear-streaked, all smiling, it brought the realization home for him as well – Morgan was dead, no longer a threat, and Charlie was going to be okay. It couldn't get any better than that.

As he and Alan sat and waited, however, his mood had deteriorated. Charlie didn't look injured from where Don sat. There was cotton in his left ear, but it wasn't visible under the dark curls, and there was soft cold pack under the back left side of his head, also not very visible. In fact, the only thing obvious was the cast on his wrist, which had been there for so long that Don had gotten used to it. His brother looked peaceful; and simply appeared to be sleeping – but he'd been out for over four hours by that point, and both Don and Alan were beginning to worry. Dr. Simon had been in to check on him again just moments ago, and mentioned that if Charlie didn't become conscious within the hour, they were going to take him for another scan. The news had obviously increased Alan's anxiety, and after the doctor left, he muttered that he was going to take a short walk. He had stepped out, leaving Don alone with Charlie.

Don rose to stretch his own legs, and saw Alan pass by the open doorway. Apparently, his father wasn't out for a walk; he was out for a pace. There was a noise behind him – almost a soft whimper. He whipped his head back around, and saw his brother's eyes move slightly under the lids. A tiny line had appeared between Charlie's brows, and his face contorted in pain, the expression becoming more pronounced as Charlie opened his eyes – just briefly, then closed them again with a soft moan. By that time, Don had reached his bedside, and he leaned over it, peering into Charlie's face. "Hey, Buddy."

Charlie opened his eyes again, but not much; they were slits of pain. He looked slightly bewildered, and Don squeezed his arm, gently. "Charlie – it's okay – you're in the hospital, but you're gonna be fine."

Charlie winced and closed his eyes. "Head hurts," he rasped.

"Yeah, you hit it on the step when you went down. You've got a concussion – you've been out for four hours."

Charlie's frowned deepened, and he opened his eyes again. "Step?"

"At the courtroom." Charlie stared at him blankly. "After the trial – Morgan, remember?"

Don could have bitten his tongue – at the mention of Morgan's name, recognition, along with fear, came back into Charlie's eyes, and he turned pale. He reached feebly for his ear, and Don said, "The doctor thinks your ear with be fine – the eardrum was cut, but it will heal."

"Can't hear – that side," mumbled Charlie, as he gently touched the outside of it.

"You have cotton in it, for one thing," said Don. "And it might not be 100 percent while it heals."

Charlie had closed his eyes again, and was breathing a little more heavily; a bead of sweat dotted his upper lip. "Don't feel good," he whispered, and Don squeezed his arm again. "Yeah, Buddy, I bet not. Hang on for a minute – I'm gonna get Dad."

Charlie's eyes opened again, with alarm in their depths, and he reached out and gripped Don's arm with surprising strength. "Did he – escape?"

"Dad?" As soon as he said that, Don realized what was generating Charlie's reaction. '_He doesn't know,_' he thought to himself, and he moved back closer to the bed, leaning close to look into Charlie's eyes.

"Charlie, Ryan Morgan is dead. We all fell during the struggle – you and Morgan got upended, and you both crashed on the steps, head down. That's how you got the concussion. Morgan broke his neck – he died at the hospital, a couple of hours ago."

Charlie blinked, his lips parted slightly as he took that in, then he looked up at Don. "You're sure? You saw him?" he asked weakly.

"I'm sure, Buddy," Don said soothingly, but the question raised a hair of doubt in his mind. No, he hadn't seen him – but the doctor wouldn't lie. "It's over, Charlie – he can't hurt anyone anymore."

Charlie took in a breath, closed his eyes, and let it out shakily. He lay there quietly for a moment; then opened his eyes. Through the pain, Don could see emotions flickering in them – and could almost see the tension leave his brother's body. "Okay – you can go get Dad."

Don strode quickly to the door, and found Alan almost immediately, just down the hall. They were back within seconds, but by the time they reached the bedside, Charlie was already out again. The look on Alan's face reminded Don of Amita's two hours earlier – disappointment and relief mingled together.

Don glanced at his watch. "Look, Dad, it's way past lunchtime. Why don't you stay here – I'm sure he'll wake up again soon, and I'll walk down and find us a couple of sandwiches."

"Yeah, okay," Alan said, his eyes on Charlie. He sank into the chair by his son's bedside, and rested his hand on Charlie's. Charlie was awake, Alan thought to himself. The nightmare was nearly over.

Don was out the door, striding rapidly, as soon as his father spoke. He knew it was irrational, but weeks of dealing with Morgan had left him paranoid. He shifted impatiently on the elevator, was out of the doors as soon as they opened, and headed for the ER at a pace just shy of a jog. There, he pushed through the double doors and strode down toward the bay where he'd seen the LAPD officers standing, flashing his badge at a nurse who had opened her mouth in protest. He pushed the bay door open. The room was empty except for a tall man in Mediclean coveralls, and the sight of him made Don's heart skip a beat, until the man turned around. His face was unfamiliar, older, his hair was thinning on the top, graying. Not Morgan – just a man, doing his job, cleaning the room. Don realized his heart was pounding, took a breath, and stepped back out into the hallway.

He flagged the nurse down, holding out his badge so she could read it. "Where did they take Ryan Morgan?"

She looked up from the badge with a raised eyebrow. "To the morgue. Where else would they take him?"

"Where's the morgue?" Don fought down a flash of impatience.

She pointed. "Go back through the doors to the central elevators. Make sure you take the right one - only one of them goes down to the lower level. Take it down, and make a left when you come out. Go all the way down that hall – you'll see a sign."

Don nodded, and took off again. He couldn't explain the feeling his gut, the rising anxiety. He had to see Morgan – had to see for himself…

Moments later, he pushed through the door for the morgue to find himself in a small outer office. There was no one there, and so he went through, pressing on through another set of doors on the other side of the room, into the morgue. Banks of stainless steel vaults lined the cold room, and an examiner in a white lab coat looked up in surprise. "Can I help you?" The phrase was solicitous, but the man's expression wasn't. His face relaxed a bit as Don showed his badge.

"I'd like to see Ryan Morgan. I need to verify that he's deceased."

The man looked at him in slight surprise. "Someone already did that – an Agent Granger, if I remember the sign-in correctly."

Don suddenly felt a little foolish. "Well, I'm here – I'd like to do that, just the same."

The man nodded, with a compassionate look. "I would too, if I were you. He was a bad one. I've been doing this for a long while, and to tell you the truth, it even creeps me out to have him in here." He led the way to a vault as he spoke, unlocked it, and pulled open the door, sliding the metal table out slowly and smoothly, and lifted the sheet from the body's face. Don froze, staring.

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End Chapter 59

_A/N: Couldn't resist one more cliffie. Is Morgan dead, or isn't he? Am I doing a sequel or not? Hmmm..._


	60. Chapter 60

_A/N: And now for the conclusion..._

_See Disclaimer, Chapter 1_

**Bird Flu - Chapter 60**

Don took in a deep breath. It was Morgan, all right, his eyes closed, the skin already turning grayish, waxy, the puckered scar on his cheek purple against the pasty skin. His eyes were slightly open, and when the examiner had opened the drawer Don initially had the brief thought that Morgan was still alive. He was most certainly dead, though, the examiner lifted Morgan's arm slightly, and the whole torso moved; the body was already stiffening, and the eyes were beginning to get cloudy. Don stood and stared for a moment, as memories from the past few weeks flitted through his head. Then he nodded, stepped back, and watched the man replace the sheet and close the vault door.

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A little over two weeks later, Don stepped into the living room of the Craftsman, shutting the door quietly as he spied the figure sprawled on the sofa. Charlie was lying there reading a technical journal, and at that instant, he looked so normal, so like his old self, that Don just stood there and watched for a moment, drinking in the sight. The cast was finally off his wrist – it had actually been ready to come off during the trial, but there had been no time to deal with it then. The doctors had removed it while Charlie had been in the hospital after the courtroom attack. There were now no obvious signs of what he'd gone through.

It had been a rocky few days after the assault in the courtroom. Charlie was in a good deal of pain from both the head and the ear injury, and had been severely nauseated when he was awake, which was only part of the time. His memory of what had happened in the courtroom was spotty, but as the pain receded and he became more alert, it seemed to clear. Not that being able to recall what happened was necessarily good – Charlie didn't need another reminder of how it felt to be at Ryan Morgan's mercy. The awareness that the killer was gone, however, did a lot to help Charlie come to terms with it. Don hadn't realized just how much tension had been generated in Charlie by the mere fact that the man was still alive. Now that he knew the killer was gone, his brother appeared to be better able to move on, to start to deal with what had happened.

Even so, he seemed to have a way to go. He was still solemn, quiet, subdued. Don had found that he, too, had been changed by what happened. Prior to Charlie's kidnapping, it seemed he had been content to be alone; coming home to an empty apartment after work hadn't bothered him much. When he craved company he'd sought it out, but for most of the week, he'd spent his off-work hours in solitude.

Now, however, the apartment seemed lonely and too quiet. He spent his evenings either at Charlie's house or Robin's place, or Robin came over to his apartment. Don had apparently decided subconsciously, at some point during the affair, that being alone was for the birds. Maybe the reason he felt that way was simply the realization that life was unpredictable and not to be wasted, but Don suspected a lot of it had to do with a new, stronger relationship he'd forged with his brother. Their relationship had been lacking an essential component - shared experiences. In earlier years, the age difference, their personality differences; their years away from home all had made it difficult to find things they liked to do together, and even when they did, it was hard to connect. Working on cases had brought them together, slowly, but the kidnapping had been a catalyst. The ordeal, as bad as it was, had been a shared experience – an intense one, bonding them like nothing else had previously. They had a history together now, that tied them together like mutual survivors, like comrades in arms.

Now, his eyes met his brother's across the room, and he saw a glimmer of affection that he knew must be mirrored in his own eyes. "Hey, Chuck."

"Hey," came Charlie's quiet response, as Alan bustled into the room, on his way to the kitchen.

"Don," said his father cheerfully, "how was your day?" He paused at a table, trying to straighten out a pile of reading material – Charlie had stacks of it lying haphazardly over the surface.

"Good," said Don.

Alan fussed with the papers and magazines, some of them slipping to the floor. "Charlie," he said, "I thought I asked you to weed through these yesterday. You need to file them or do something with them, son." The comment, which might have been sharp weeks ago, came out gently, although Don noticed just a hint of frustration in Alan's voice. Some things, it seemed, were getting back to normal.

Charlie looked at him blankly. "What?"

"I said, you need to organize these," replied Alan, finally getting the pile into something that at least looked like it would remain on the table.

"I can't hear you. What?"

Don felt his gut twist in apprehension, and Alan straightened and looked at Charlie anxiously. Charlie's ear had been healing, or so they had thought, but it seemed his brother apparently couldn't hear a conversation at a normal volume from just a few feet away.

Charlie stared back at them, and then a grin crept to his face, slowly, spreading across like the sun, a mischievous light dancing in his eyes – his first real smile in weeks. Alan snorted and swatted at the air in Charlie's general direction, and then looked at Don in mock disgust. "Some things never change. It appears he's gotten his selective hearing back." He smiled at his sons. "Come on, dinner's ready."

A short time later, Don shot a glance sideways at the table, noting with satisfaction that Charlie was digging into his plate of beef stroganoff with enthusiasm. "So, you had a checkup today, huh?"

Charlie turned his head slightly. He still did have some difficulty hearing in his left ear, although it was improving. "Yeah, I got released to drive again. The audiologist said I'm up to 70 percent in my ear, although the ear specialist said today that it probably wouldn't come back all the way. He doesn't think the bones were fractured, but the eardrum, along with the bones, shifted a little with respect to the cochlea. He expects 90 percent recovery though, he said."

Alan grunted, and his eyes glinted with humor. "Not enough of an excuse for not taking out the trash."

Charlie grinned again, and Don drank in the sight. God, it felt so good to see him smile. "No, I guess not. I'll have to think of something else." Charlie speared a chunk of beef with his fork. "I talked to Millie today, too. I'm going back to school when the fall semester starts – in two weeks."

Alan sat up in his chair, concern on his face. "Charlie, isn't that a bit too soon?"

Charlie looked back at them, and Don could see a trace of his old confidence as he met their eyes. "No – I realize I still have a way to go with – dealing - with all of it, but I think I should do this. Dr. Raine agrees. I'm going to try it, and Millie assured me if it's too much, I can back out, and they'll make other arrangements." His tone turned slightly pleading. "I need to do this, Dad. I need something to occupy my mind. I need to start working on getting my life back."

Alan looked at him doubtfully. "Well, as long as Susan says it's okay to try…"

"Oh, it's okay as long as _Susan_ says so," Don needled, smirking, and Charlie jumped in, both of them teasing as Alan, flustered, tried to protest. As they finished dinner and stood up to clear the plates, Don's heart soared at the normalcy of it all – the light talk, the banter, the smiles. As he set his plate on the counter, he thought to himself that it was probably the best dinner he'd ever had.

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It was a great evening, and the mood hung on into the next morning. Don strode off the office elevators with a slight smile on his face, but his progress to the bullpen was brought up short by Wright. Normally, the A.D. didn't appear in their offices unless there was something serious underway, and Don immediately sobered. Wright pulled him aside, his expression serious. "Don, I need to talk to you in the back conference room."

Don's brow knit. The back conference room was windowless, and they used it when they wanted privacy. "What about?"

"It's communication from the Director, concerning your handling of the Flower Killer case." He looked at the briefcase in Don's hand. "Put your stuff on your desk and come on in."

Don's gut contracted, as he watched Wright set off for the conference room. He'd been aware there had been an inquiry by Bureau internal affairs, which Wright had assured him was standard when an agent was involved in an investigation concerning his own family members. Don had followed orders, getting an evaluation and clearance for field duty from Dr. Bradford after the trial. He'd known he'd pushed the envelope, though, on his takedown of Morgan at the hospital, and then had been involved in an altercation that resulted in the death of the man in the courtroom. There had been a surveillance tape running in the room for security purposes, however, and it had vindicated both him and Colby; Morgan's injury had clearly been an accidental outcome of their attempt at rescue, and Charlie's endeavor to stop Morgan from escaping. What had happened? Had Morgan's family filed a lawsuit? Had internal affairs decided he was a liability?

He moved slowly to his desk, noting that none of his team members were in the room, and his stomach twisted into an even tighter ball. Why would they all be gone at this moment – unless they didn't want to face him when he came out of the conference room after his meeting with Wright? Did they already know? Maybe this was worse than he'd thought…

His mouth dry, he crossed the room, turned down the hall. At the door, he took a breath and gently twisted the knob. As the door swung open, he stood there, rooted in place, his mouth hanging open. Megan, Colby, David, Liz, his father, and Charlie stood in the room with Wright, facing him, smiles on their faces. "Come in, Don," said Wright. His serious expression had been replaced by a smile, and he was holding a document in a gold frame.

Don moved slowly into the room and shut the door, trying to compose his features, although he knew he still looked bewildered. Wright stepped forward. "Don, I've seen many cases over the years that affected agents on a personal level, with varying effects on their level of performance. I have never, however, seen such tenacious commitment, such dedication, and such coolness under unbelievable pressure as I saw from you on this case. The Director agrees with me, and he would like you to accept this letter of commendation from him." He held out the frame to display an official-looking letter, mounted inside. "Normally, these letters simply go in your file, but I thought this one warranted a little bit more of an occasion, and I wanted to present it to you personally."

"Plus, it's good excuse to have cake," David grinned, with a nod at a decorated sheet cake on the table. Everyone chuckled, and Don felt an answering smile come to his face as he took in their expressions. His gaze met Charlie's; he saw his brother's eyes, filled with pride and affection, and his grin widened, as he shook Wright's hand and accepted the letter.

"Thank you, sir." Don eyes swept the room. "It helps to have a great team -," he looked at Alan, who was beaming proudly, "and solid support from your family. I couldn't have done it without all of you."

Colby gave Charlie an affectionate thump on the back, making the professor stagger a bit. "We weren't about to let anyone get away with a member of the team," he said, and Charlie flushed a little, embarrassed but pleased.

Don examined the letter, which was printed on expensive paper and bore the Bureau seal. "The official letter is in your file," said Wright, "but I'd thought you'd like a copy."

"Thanks," he said quietly, more seriously, his eyes meeting Wright's, "but you gave this to the wrong guy. Charlie's the one who should get the credit." He paused, holding Charlie's eyes for a moment. "He survived something horrible, and still managed to nail Morgan on the stand. And when Morgan tried to escape, Charlie was willing to put his life on the line to stop him. I can't think of anyone who deserves an award more – and I'm sure as hell proud to say he's my brother."

Charlie returned his gaze; the blush had deepened, and there was something indescribable in his eyes. Alan looked barely able to contain himself and ready to burst with delight; he kept looking back and forth between the two of them as if he'd suddenly awakened to find two imposters as his sons – two imposters of which he was insufferably proud.

Megan smiled. "Here, here."

"Okay, enough of the speeches," said Colby, rubbing his hands. "It's cake time."

A moment later, cake in hand, Don sidled up to Alan and Charlie. "You two knew about this last night, didn't you?" he said, in a slightly accusing voice.

Charlie and Alan exchanged an amused glance, and Charlie looked at Don with an impish grin. "Maybe Wright told me – I'm not sure if I understood what he said," he replied. "I'm hard of hearing, you know."

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Charlie walked briskly across campus, flashing a quiet smile at a group of students who called out a greeting. It was seven weeks after the attack at the courtroom, and three weeks since he'd come back to CalSci. Three weeks, and already it seemed almost as though he'd never left.

There was a chasm between last spring and this fall however, that he was still trying to assimilate. The entire summer yawned like a black pit in his mind, something that still twisted his insides when he remembered, especially if those memories hit him suddenly. It helped to get back to teaching, to a routine, although he'd had hard time convincing his brother and his father of that. They'd worried that he wasn't strong enough, physically or mentally. The past month had helped convince them; he'd regained a little weight, although his clothes were still baggy. On the surface, no one would guess what he'd experienced. Under his shirt, and on his psyche, however, he still bore scars.

He reached the building that housed the staff offices, and made his way down the hall to his office, depositing his lecture materials and packing his bag for home. It was the end of the day, and although he had tests to grade, he knew he probably wouldn't get to them that night - he had plans with Don. He packed them anyway, slung the bag on his shoulder and paused, drinking in the early evening sunlight streaming through the window. There was no doubt, he was nervous, but he took a deep breath and stepped out, locking the door.

He made his way down the hallway, and paused at the entrance to her office. The late sunlight glinted golden from Amita's dark head as she bent over paperwork on her desk. She was totally absorbed and hadn't seen him yet, and he stood there, just taking in the sight of her. God, he still loved her so much it hurt, but it was the fear of that pain that had made him keep her at arm's length. In spite of his statement that they could be friends, he'd kept their relationship at no more than colleagues for weeks. She'd been a bit hurt at first, but doggedly persistent, and as time wore on, Charlie had to admit to himself he'd probably tested her past the patience limit of most women. Still, he couldn't bring himself to do more than ease into it cautiously – even though he'd decided it was time. He knocked softly.

She looked up, a smile and a questioning look appearing on her face at the same time, a look that said, _'Don't get me wrong - I like this, but what are you doing here?' _

"Charlie, hi," she said, the surprise resonating in her voice.

He stepped in slowly, a little awkwardly, feeling like he'd felt the first time he'd asked her out. "I – uh – I was wondering if you'd want to go out tomorrow night – maybe a movie or something," he said. A movie was a safe start, he thought, something that friends did together…

Her jaw dropped a little, but she quickly recovered, and a smile came to her face. "Dr. Eppes; are you asking me out on a date?" she said coyly.

He grinned shyly. "Maybe." His expression sobered, turned earnest, and he stammered, "I thought – maybe we could start over. I mean - we don't have to – we can keep it just friends – I still have a lot to work through, and I'll understand if that's all you want-,"

"Charlie," she interrupted his stumbling flow of words gently. "I'd love to go." Her smile softened and he could see the warmth, the love radiating from her eyes. He smiled back, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, there might a future for them, after all.

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Don glanced at his watch. Charlie had called to say he was on his way from the Craftsman, and Don knew he'd be getting there any minute. His brother had invited him to dinner – he'd told him he wanted to thank him properly for everything he'd done, and although Don had tried to downplay it, Charlie had insisted. They'd picked a date, and Charlie had made reservations at the most expensive steak restaurant in L.A., and told Don he'd pick him up.

Don heard the soft rap at the door, and detoured toward it on his way to the kitchen, pulling it open with a grin. "Hey, Chuck. I was just going to pull out a couple of beers – you want one before we go?"

"Sure." Charlie stepped inside as Don turned and headed for the refrigerator, but he didn't sit, instead he stood there a bit self-consciously, and as Don returned, he noticed his brother had a box in his hands.

Don's step slowed. "What's that?"

Charlie held the box out, and Don set the beers down on a nearby table, as his brother looked at him. Charlie looked a little too serious, as if he were struggling to hold something in, emotions that threatened to spill out. "Just something I got for you," he stammered, awkwardly. He looked up at Don, solemnly. "I don't know how to thank you – for, for everything, for not giving up, for saving me, in more ways than one."

Don took the box and looked down at it, hefting it; it weighed more than he would have expected. "Charlie, you don't have to thank me -,"

"Yes, I do," interjected Charlie, cutting him off. "It's – I don't know – anyway, I had it made, just something to remember what happened, what you did for me." '_What you mean to me_,' he added silently.

Don looked at him, then down at the box, and opened it carefully, pulling out the metal figure. It was an eagle, exquisitely done in great detail, perched on a rock, proudly surveying its domain. It was pewter, about eight inches high, and was a work of art, that looked expensive.

"It's a bird," said Charlie unnecessarily. "I wanted a bird of some kind, and the eagle reminded me of you." He paused; then continued. "I spent a lot of time trying to forget, trying to put what happened out of my mind, but I decided that was wrong. It's part of our history now. It's good to remember." He cleared his throat. "Read the bottom."

Don carefully turned it over, and read the inscription engraved into the bottom. "Always the eagle, always my hero. To Don from Charlie, Summer 2008." He looked up with a sudden lump in his throat. "Charlie – I don't know what to say. This is -," he looked back down at the figure again – "this is – it's the best thing anyone's ever given me."

Charlie let out a breath, and grinned in relief. "You like it, then?"

Don shook his head in amazement, smiling, and reached out, giving him a quick fierce hug. He held him for a moment, as a sudden wave of deep emotion swept through him; then released him, looking at him. "You didn't have to do this," he repeated. '_It's enough just to have you here,_' he thought to himself. "You're the hero, here. But yes, of course I do."

Charlie rubbed his hands, a ridiculously pleased grin on his face. "Well, then, that's good. Look, can I use your bathroom to wash up a little before we go? I stopped at home, but I forgot. I still have chalk dust on my hands."

Don was turning the figure over in his hands. "Sure. Go ahead. We've got time, right? We'll sit and have those beers." Charlie loped off to the bathroom, and still Don stood there looking at the eagle, thinking of that evening; it seemed ages ago, when he'd walked in to find the birds in his apartment. After everything that happened, Charlie had picked a bird to commemorate it – it was odd, and touching at the same time.

It was something that belonged proudly on a mantel, but he didn't have one. Instead, he crossed the room to a case. It was a decent piece of furniture, and doubled as bookcase and a display case. On top of it were some of his most treasured trophies from his baseball days, and other awards, including the framed letter he'd just received a few weeks ago from Wright. He pushed them all backwards, and put the eagle in the place of honor, front and center. As he did, something floated downward, dislodged by one of the trophies, and he bent to pick it up.

It was a feather, left in spite of the cleaning job they'd done. It must have been caught in one of the trophies. He turned automatically to take it to the trash; then stopped, staring at it, remembering - the fear, the pain, the tears, and above all the resolve – his resolve to save his brother, Charlie's resolve to survive, both of them determined to vanquish a killer … The room was quiet, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the universe, just him, and the feather.

He looked back at the eagle, and then carefully lifted it, set the feather underneath, and placed the figure gently on top of it. The eagle stared back at him, unafraid, fierce, proud; triumphant. Charlie was right, he thought, it was good to remember.

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The End

_A/N: I really had no plans for a sequel, I thought it better to complete this one. I've been writing it for so long, it will seem odd to be without it. I have some other ideas percolating, however, and I plan to do a joint fic with FraidyCat before I tackle them. My deepest thanks to all of you who read and reviewed this story - your comments made it better, and I love writing for you all, you're the best. SG_


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